At the Edges
by on rooftops
Summary: Jackson still won't meet his eyes. "Do you want to know what's going on?" he asks. — Danny/Stiles - AU post-season 2
1. Part One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Teen Wolf_.  
**A/N:** This is AU post season 2, because I got the idea just before season 3 started and I couldn't help but start writing it. I also didn't pay much attention to spoilers because (a) Erica and (b) Jackson? So they're both in this. It occurred to me on my third read-through that this may be terribly boring but I have many feelings for Danny so I'm posting it anyway. And there'll be a second part up sometime this weekend, hopefully.

At the Edges

Danny is on a run when he sees Erica. Eight months ago, he wouldn't have given a damn about seeing Erica Reyes in the backseat of a rusty Camry. Hell, eight months ago, he'd been aware of her only enough to pity her for her epilepsy. Admittedly, that pity had transformed into a sort of terrified awe after the midyear leather and lipstick makeover, but even then he wouldn't have noticed the blur of her hair in the backseat of a car speeding through an intersection.

But, as far as Danny knows, no one has seen Erica since the spring. Jackson had had to go to the police station, had been asked to give yet another statement in a semester so full of alleged criminal activity that Danny hadn't even been surprised to hear that his best friend was a suspect in the disappearance of a girl they'd both known since elementary school.

Months have passed, everyone says the investigation has grown cold, and now here she is, and Danny is the one to see her, so, yeah, he notices her. She whips around at the sight of him, presses her palms against the glass of the window, mouths frantic words at him through the smear of red her lips become as the car passes, and Danny stands still just long enough to make out the number on the license plate. Then he turns and runs.

He doesn't go to the police station. He probably should. Even as he heads away from the center of town, even as he turns down residential streets and cuts through cul-de-sacs, a part of him is thinking he should go to the sheriff. A part of him is thinking he should pull his phone out of the sleeve on his arm and dial 911. He shoves that part down and sprints, flat-footed and tired, to Stiles Stilinski's doorstep.

He falls forward, pounding fists against the door. He hasn't even begun to recover his breath when the door opens and he stumbles, catches himself, and looks up to see Stiles standing in front of him, bleary eyed, longish hair messy, mouth partly open.

"What's happened?" Stiles steps aside, voice croaky, and Danny shakes his head, gulps in air, and gets far enough inside for Stiles to close the door behind him.

"Erica," Danny rasps, and Stiles's eyes widen. He wakes up a little.

"Did you see her?"

"In a car by CVS."

Stiles pushes him down the hall, one hand against the drenched fabric of his t-shirt, and into the kitchen. There are plates piled in the sink, a half a pot of coffee in the coffeemaker, a cereal box sitting open on the counter. Stiles pulls a glass from the dish rack and fills it with water, handing it to Danny while picking up his cellphone from the kitchen table and thumbing down the screen.

"Get over here," he says into it. Danny tips his head back and drains the glass. "Yes, I know. No, I don't care. It's Erica. Yeah. I'll call Scott." He pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment. Danny refills his glass in the silence of Stiles scrolling through his contacts again, and then Stiles is saying, "Hey, get the gang together and go to the center of town. You don't need to tell me it's early, I fucking know it's early. Call Allison. I know, I know, dude, but it's Erica. Danny's seen her." He turns away from Danny, who's getting a third glass of water. He takes this one slower, staring at the hole in the collar of Stiles's shirt. "I don't know. I don't know, Scott. I told—yeah, Jackson will be over. Ask Allison to call Lydia. I'm not sure. I don't know, I said. We'll figure it out. Right now, though, Erica. By CVS. In a car. I don't know what kind," and Danny says, "late 90s Camry, white," and Stiles says into the phone, "Did you hear that?" even though Danny's voice is still quiet with the fastness of his run. Stiles hangs up without saying anything else, drops his phone in a loud clatter on the counter, and faces Danny again.

"So?" he prompts.

Danny rests his glass against his cheek. "She was in the backseat. She looked," petrified, angry, vicious, crazy, "like she didn't want to be there."

"No fuck." Stiles is so much less than the hyperactive kid he is in chemistry right now. He's got his lip between his teeth and his hands pressed against the back of his neck and Danny feels confused, lost in this boy's kitchen. Stiles takes up so little space here.

He hurries out of the room; Danny can hear his feet pound up the stairs. A door slams, and then there's silence, and then Stiles is stampeding back down the stairs, shaking the stairwell as he careens into the kitchen, his laptop in his hands. He drops the computer in the same unceremonious fashion that he had dropped his phone, and, all right, it's not the nicest machine in the world, but he should really be a little more careful.

"You don't need to take this out on your computer."

"She's been through worse."

Danny decides to ignore that. Mostly. He snorts a little.

Stiles doesn't respond, just pushes open the computer and types in his password, then turns it (her?) to face Danny. "You're hacking into California's car registry."

"No, I'm not." Danny shakes his head, so fast the room blurs. "Definitely not."

"You are," and then there's noise in the front hall, voices running over each other, and Stiles shoots Danny a hard stare, one that doesn't at all fit the Stiles who falls off his chair in chemistry, the one who asks him questions about his sexuality, the one who Danny would have sworn he knew just yesterday, before heading down the hall toward the front door. Danny pulls out a chair and Googles the remote access site for California's DMV.

Jackson and the absurdly built man Stiles'd once introduced to Danny as his cousin Miguel follow him back into the kitchen a few Google pages later.

Jackson nods at Danny, posture weirdly stiff and eyes skittering over the table and the fridge and everywhere but where he's sitting at the table. Stiles waves at the man he'd made strip in his bedroom last year. "This is Derek."

The man holds out his hand. "Not Miguel," he clarifies. Danny shakes his hand, even though he's half afraid this Derek will break his fingers just by touching them. Because, fuck. Even in the t-shirt he's wearing, which is definitely looser than any of Stiles's were on him, just _damn._

But Derek lets go of him without breaking any bones, and Danny releases a nervous laugh as he sets his hand back on the keyboard.

Jackson jerks his head up. "Boyd," he says, tone sounding like a warning, seconds before Stiles's back door bursts open and their classmate throws himself inside.

Boyd used to be big but little, diminutive, easy to ignore for Jackson and Danny and their group because he didn't matter to them, and, yeah, better by comparison to Jackson is not _good, _is not _nice_, Danny knows this even if no one else does. But now Boyd is huge, he fills up the room, gets up in Danny's face with eyes wild, lips curled back, voice rough and deep and fucking desperate. "You saw Erica?"

Danny jerks back, and Stiles—Stiles steps around him as his chair scrapes on the floor and presses a hand against Boyd's heaving shoulder. "In a car, he's hacking the DMV, we'll try to find out who it is, where they're going."

"Shouldn't we be—?" Boyd takes deep breaths and Danny refocuses his attention on the computer, uncomfortable at the raw emotion, abruptly aware of how much more important this is than maybe anything he's been involved in before. "Shouldn't we be looking for her? If she was in town? Couldn't we—couldn't we just—shouldn't we be able to find her?" All of these questions are directed at Derek, who collapses at Stiles's table like he belongs there.

The questions are directed at Derek, but it's Jackson who answers first. "I passed Scott on my way here. He said he and Isaac were tracking her. Lydia and Allison were supposed to be joining them, bring a car and…stuff."

"Tracking?" Danny repeats, speaking to Stiles's computer screen.

Jackson moves around the table, pressing into Stiles's space. "I told you I didn't want," he begins.

"Don't care," Stiles tells him. "Really, dude, I don't give a damn. Sorry, but this is important, and Danny can help. More than you can, right now. Besides, he's _in_ it."

"He doesn't have to be in it." Derek's voice is quiet, like he's trying for calm but only just manages tired.

"I want Erica back." Boyd sits on the other side of Danny, and Danny tenses, fingers still on the keyboard while he tries to ignore the solid presence beside him. He hasn't felt—this is threatened, this feels threatened—he hasn't felt this way since he and his last boyfriend broke up. "If he needs to be in it to get her back, then I'm with Stilinski."

"He's already in it," Stiles repeats. "Like we all were. I was, from the start. Lydia, Allison. You can't not be. He can't not be."

"Maybe someone should ask me what I want." Danny has just cracked through the last password-protected portion of the remote-access site and numbers skim under his fingers, beautiful.

"If you answer wrong I'll be so disappointed, dude." And Jackson _growls _at that, an actual guttural sound, leaning over the table so his shadow looms across it, lengthens in the sunlight slanting through the windows over the sink.

"You have no right." Derek's voice is still exhausted. "No one's forced you to tell your dad, Stiles. No one's _forced_ you to do anything. Let Jackson…this isn't your business. Either of yours," he adds, because Boyd has started speaking.

Stiles waves his hands around, and Danny is comforted by the movement, by the familiarity of it. "Fine." Stiles sounds put out the way he does at lacrosse practice, when he's been told to sit on the bench for one too many games. "I'm going upstairs. Let me know when you've decided."

To Danny's surprise, Boyd lifts himself out of his chair and trails Stiles out of the room. Derek leans in close to Jackson, saying something so quiet that Danny can't make out more than a rumble of noise, before following the other two. Jackson doesn't look at Danny. He doesn't speak until there's a sound of a door shutting loudly, slammed, upstairs, and then he settles in his seat.

"How'd you know to come here? When you saw her?"

"That's not your question," Danny accuses, typing the numbers in the search bar. He can't remember the last two digits of the license plate, but he hopes the first five will get him somewhere.

Jackson presses his hands into the table. It creaks. The table fucking creaks.

"Your question," Danny stares at Jackson's hands for a solid few seconds before forcing his attention back to the computer screen, "is why I didn't call you. Why I came to Stilinski."

"And your answer?"

"Because I thought he was more involved in all of this than you. I thought," Danny can feel success approaching, it's buzzing in the keys, "you were more on the outskirts of all the craziness that's happened this year."

Jackson laughs. "Everyone underestimates me."

"No, I thought you were too smart to get tied up in it." Danny glances up from the computer screen. "But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

Jackson still won't meet his eyes. "Do you want to know what's going on?" he asks, finally, and Danny, even though he has actually had a half a year to decide whether he wants the truth, even though he has been thinking about this since Scott McCall made first line, since that weird night in the club, since the boy he'd been crushing on disappeared, since a fuck-ton of death got shoved into a few short months, since Jackson _died_ but actually didn't, since Stiles came to school with his face black and blue and Lydia had stood in the middle of a hallway and catcalled at him, and Stiles had laughed, not blushed, not flailed, but _laughed_—since the whole school turned on its head, Danny has been deciding whether he wants to know.

And now he's got to do it, actually make a decision, and that is pretty damn hard.

"If I say no," he says, and Jackson lets out a breath that sounds like relief, and so Danny repeats, "_If_ I say no, will you run off and leave me here when I tell you that I just found out that the car was registered to a Ms. Umberta Smith of 56 Oak Street and that supposedly she is no longer allowed to drive it?"

Jackson shoves back from the table. "Good, that's good." There's the sound of feet pounding on the stairs and Jackson tries to escape but Danny reaches across the table, snags onto the neck of his tee, and, fuck, Jackson's glare has gotten a lot scarier in the last few months.

"That's a yes, then," Danny fists his hand in Jackson's shirt, "which means," the fabric darkens in his still-sweaty fingers, "that's a yes from me, too. What the hell is going on?"

Derek and Boyd have reached the kitchen, and Stiles skids in just as Jackson takes his seat again and looks at Danny, really looks at him, for the first time that morning.

"We're going," Boyd tells him. "Derek and me. You catch up with Stiles when you can."

"Wait," Stiles says, and Danny's glad he's not the one who has to say it, because Derek and Boyd look like they're ready to explode, to get away so fast they might break a wall, but they stop when Stiles tells them to. "First," he's speaking quick and crazy, voice high with tension, "you should be here for this. At least you, Derek, because you're the start of it. And second, why would they bring Erica back? Why would they come back if they had her? Why after all this time? This is obviously a trap, right? We need to be careful not to spring it."

"So?" Boyd growls, low. Jackson is still staring at Danny, still watching, waiting like he wants him to say that he takes it back, that he doesn't want to know. "You want us to go slow?"

"I want us to go slow_er_, and I want us to go together." Stiles pulls out his cellphone and leans against the counter, touching rapid fingers against the screen. "Jackson," he says without looking up from the phone, and Jackson, amazingly, lowers his gaze to his hands and opens his mouth.

He takes a deep breath, loud enough that Danny can hear it no problem, and then says, "First off, I guess it's important for you to know that werewolves exist."

Danny chokes back a laugh. This doesn't seem the moment to laugh, even if it reeks of one of Jackson's terrible practical jokes. Like, he's beginning with werewolves but it'll end up being a drug deal or an underground fighting ring. Something slightly—if only slightly—more believable.

"Werewolves?" Danny repeats. Stiles makes an agreeing humming noise behind him, and Jackson shoots his gaze up to Stiles, eyes glowing blue, bright blue, electric blue, fucking unnatural blue.

"Jesus." Danny slides down in his chair, fisting his hands in his hair and trying not to think because this is insane, is what it is. It is ridiculous. This cannot be an actual conversation that he's having in his life.

"Erica and Boyd and Lahey and McCall and," he looks at his hands, looks over Danny's shoulder again, looks over Danny's other shoulder, at Derek, looks, finally, at Danny, "me." Danny tries not to move, tries not to react. "We were all bitten. By Derek." Danny tenses, moves slightly, an inch or two, over in his chair, closer to Stiles, further from Derek. "He offered, Derek offers. Except for McCall. McCall didn't—"

"My uncle bit Scott," Derek explains, voice soft, not that that makes any difference to Danny, he's still hanging off his chair, getting as close to Stiles—the only other human in the room, fuck _everything_—as possible, "he wanted a pack, because pack means strength, and he found Scott and bit him without giving him a chance, without telling him," and he trails off, seemingly unable to continue.

Stiles picks up, "So Scott and me sorted out this ridiculous werewolf mystery and then it turns out that there are humans who know about it—not like me and Lydia, and now you, who sort of fell into it—but humans who call themselves hunters and, um, their mission in life—their family's mission—is to kill rogue werewolves? Or not-so-rogue, if you're crazy like a few of the Argents were. Not Allison." All of this bursts in a rush and Danny feels as if his brains are about to fall out. "So anyway a lot of the shit that went down this year was us trying not to get killed by hunters—or me trying not to let Scott get killed by hunters. And also Derek's uncle was sort of batshit crazy. He died," and then Stiles falters because apparently he realizes he is really not helping matters much.

"He died," Danny repeats. "Someone killed him?"

"It was a joint effort," Stiles explains. "Really pretty complicated. This was before—everything, really—when Scott and Derek and Peter—Derek's uncle—were the only wolves in town. And then Derek became the alpha and bit the rest and some shit went down that doesn't really matter and then Erica and Boyd found an alpha pack—that is, a pack of alphas."

Jackson cuts in, "Alphas are wolves who can turn you, the strongest wolves." And maybe no one else notices it, but Danny can hear the edge of jealousy in Jackson's tone.

"We were found by an alpha pack," Boyd interrupts, "and they messed me up but let me go, but they kept Erica and disappeared. We've been searching for her for months, but they somehow severed our pack bond, and now she's back because you've seen her. And I'd really like to go get her now." His voice drops several octaves and Jackson starts up without seeming to think about it. Danny cranes his neck around to look at the others. Derek has his hand on Boyd's neck, comforting, and Stiles is typing something into his phone again.

"Scott says they've followed the scent to the edge of town, over by the abandoned flea market, but that they don't want to go on without all of us there. I've got the address for the owner of the car in my GPS—do we go to the others, or do we go there?" He looks at Derek.

"There?" Derek suggests, and Boyd propels from beneath his hand like he's finally been unleashed.

"Slower, remember," Stiles shouts after him, but they can already hear the sound of a car starting in the driveway.

Jackson and Derek hesitate in the doorway. "You don't have to come," Derek tells him. "As long as you swear not to say anything, you can go."

"This is," Danny clears Stiles's Internet history and stands up, "it's like—this is weird and fucking crazy, I guess, but I'm in. Like Stiles said. Plus, I was the one to see her. And that can't have been a part of their plan. Maybe we're, maybe because of me you're ahead of them."

"Great," Stiles throws an arm around Danny's shoulders, and he tries not to jump at the sudden contact, "let's get going, then, otherwise Boyd will probably tear a hole in my car."

Stiles doesn't even complain about Boyd being in the driver's seat as he climbs to sit between Jackson and Danny in the back. He leans forward and holds his phone out in the space between Derek and Boyd, directing Boyd to drive them down narrow and windy back roads that Danny hadn't even known were still considered within Beacon Hills.

There's no car in the driveway when they pull up to the ranch, just one falling-down floor with weeds growing through cracks in the driveway and over the bricks of the front steps. Boyd parks on the road so fast that Danny's head bounces back against the seat.

Derek gets out, pushes his seat forward. "Boyd, you and Jackson stay here. Danny, Stiles, you two come on."

"Is there anyone home?" Stiles asks, and Danny wonders how he expects anyone to know that, but Derek nods.

"Just one person. Human, but the place stinks of wolves."

And Danny realizes that the only thing he actually knows, the only thing that is different about him at this moment, the thing that wasn't his this morning, is this knowledge of werewolves. This knowledge that they exist, and that Jackson and the others are not human. He doesn't know anything about what that means.

Stiles rings the doorbell, leans against it so it buzzes loud and obnoxious even to them, where they're standing outside, and Derek mutters, "Stiles," his voice gruff, and he lifts his finger, the noise fading. Danny feels so out of place that he'd almost rather be naked while guarding the goal in a lacrosse game.

"No one's coming," Stiles says after a few silent seconds, reaching out to press the doorbell again.

"Don't," Danny says, and Stiles's finger hovers in the air.

"Someone's coming," Derek tells them, his body growing so tense beside Danny that it feels as if he's pulling the air away from them, like he's gotten heavier and his gravity is consuming. Danny shifts forward, his foot tapping against the heel of Stiles's shoe as he moves. Stiles glances back and offers a weirdly stretched grin just as the door opens and—

And they're looking at a tiny woman, shoulders delicate but hunched, hair so white it's blue, eyes nearly lost in a maze of wrinkles, wrists so thin, just so thin, and it hurts to look at her because she is old age, she is what happens if you make it, she is weak and fragile and Danny can hear a growl beginning in Derek's throat and that is wrong, because she is tiny and alone and the most unthreatening person he has ever seen.

Stiles starts talking before Derek can do whatever he's planning, thank _God_. Stiles just goes, "Good morning. I'm a friend of your neighbor," he gestures vaguely down the road, away from the Jeep, "and he mentioned to me the other day that you have a Toyota Camry? Said it never leaves your lot, although I don't see it here now," Stiles waves his hands, and Danny is stunned because he is _good at this_, good at lying, astonishing with the way he's throwing his body into it, "And my friend here," he points at Danny, who tries to look convincing, tries to look like—Stiles's friend, like someone whose breath is not caught hard in his lungs, "is looking for precisely a model that year and I understand if you don't have it anymore but if you do would you possibly consider selling it to him?"

"No one wants that car," the woman says, her voice hoarse and husky. Maybe it wasn't such a good lie, but Stiles did it so well that Danny would have believed him one second in, and he doesn't get why this woman is still holding onto the door and glaring at them through wrinkled-over and watery eyes. "And my grandsons are using it. And no, I will not tell you where they are, because they and your pretty blonde friend do not want to be found."

Derek's growl bursts out, but it's taken on Stiles's name while lingering in his windpipe, and Stiles responds by stepping forward and taking one of the woman's tiny wrists, before Danny can even blink, before the woman can so much as shuffle a step backwards. Stiles is holding a syringe, which he inserts where the woman's shoulder meets her neck, and she lets out a sigh and falls forward. Derek has stepped around both Danny and Stiles, who releases the woman as she crumples. He caps the needle and pockets it, his hands steadier than Danny's ever seen them. Derek catches the woman as she drops, lifts her in his arms carefully, like a child.

"Close the door and come on," he directs, heading back to the Jeep in a long-legged stride, and no one comes screaming out of their houses, no alarms go off, no cop cars zoom skidding from down the road. It's all quiet, except Stiles just drugged a woman and Derek Hale, resident hottie with a tragic backstory, resident _alpha werewolf_, is lifting an unconscious woman into the backseat of Stiles's Jeep. Danny can feel the panic he's been keeping tamped down clawing at his throat as Stiles shuts the door to the house with a soft click.

"Ready, Danny?" He says it like they're leaving chemistry together. He says it like it's normal. He says it like Danny's not taking scary deep breaths to keep standing.

"This is going to come across as sort of callous and awful and I'm sorry, but can you hold off on that until we get in the car? Because I only gave her enough to knock her out for like fifty minutes, and if we could get to her grandsons and Erica before she wakes up that would probably be good."

"How'd you even—?" Danny manages, trying really hard to fight the burgeoning panic back. Really hard. Really fucking hard. Stiles takes his elbow, carefully, lightly, like he's afraid Danny'll blow up if he puts any real pressure on him, and tries to lead him down the steps. Danny lets him, but only because Stiles starts talking.

"The drugs are a cocktail given to us by Deaton—the town vet? He's sort of, um, a werewolf whisperer, I guess? I don't know what you'd call him, actually. But he helps sometimes. And the reasoning is," he trails off because Danny has stopped again.

Danny takes two deep, deep breaths, so deep he imagines he can taste the hot tar and the sweat blistering out over his forehead and the sweat at his elbow, transferring from Stiles's hand to his skin, and he breathes those two breaths and says, "The town _vet_ is in on this?"

Stiles shrugs. "It's all incredibly fucked up." The Jeep's engine revs from where it sits only a few feet away—a few feet, Danny can make it—and he looks up to see Boyd's eyes flashing yellow behind the window. "But we're going to hopefully use this woman to trade for Erica. Hopefully they'll care enough about her. Family is pack, and Derek says this place smells like that pack, so chances are they'll take the bait. If they don't, at least we've got a bargaining chip. Now, _please_, get in the Jeep."

And Danny does. Derek and Jackson are in the backseat, the woman between them with her head tilted back and a shiny string of drool slipping from her pale lips. Danny and Stiles squeeze together in the passenger seat, and Stiles's left leg jiggles against Danny's as Boyd takes off, wheels screaming against the road.

"You said by the old flea market, yeah?" Boyd asks Stiles over Danny, not even looking at Danny, and the air in the car is crazy, it's full of tension and hope and a lot of other emotions. Emotions that feel out of proportion. Danny's never felt love like this, this love the whole Jeep is full of, this love for Erica that's driving all these people—even Jackson, somehow, Jackson is here and he has not argued once, he seems one hundred percent on board with this, and Danny doesn't understand that—it's driving all of them to—to drug an old woman, to threaten and posture and—this is _insane_.

Danny's never needed to fight mythological creatures for somebody. He doesn't know the lengths you go to when lives are on the line. Or he hadn't known. Now, he realizes, as Boyd speeds through a four-way stop without even touching the brakes, now he knows. You go to whatever lengths you need to. You go the whole fucking distance.

He feels this niggling doubt, like, did they have to? Did Stiles have to _drug _her? Was this the extreme, was this borne of watching too many action movies as kids? Was this just how they thought they had to act? They were all so young, maybe—maybe there was a way out of it that wasn't criminal. Maybe, but then Stiles is leaning into his shoulder, breath on his ear, whispering, even though from Derek's comments back at the house Danny's sure the whole car can hear, "Are you okay?" Danny nods, because he has to.

"Fine," he says, voice stiff.

"He'll freak out later."

Danny doesn't feel like Jackson has the right to make comments about him right now. Jackson has been lying for so long, about such important things, he _can't_ have the right—Danny doesn't know, he doesn't get it, any of this.

"Scott says," Stiles speaks before Danny can react to Jackson, "that they're _at _the flea market. The alphas left the car and took off into the woods. He thinks they know they're there, but they haven't done anything."

"They didn't leave a guard at their grandmother's, either," Derek says. "They're either idiots or they're planning something."

"Or possibly both." Stiles shifts so Danny has a little more room. "Which might be good. Idiots with a plan are easy to trap."

They roll to a stop in the dirt parking lot of the abandoned flea market, where two cars idle at one end and the Camry sits empty at the other, parked among some dilapidated wooden carts.

Isaac and Scott get out of one car, Allison and Lydia appear out of the other, and they regroup in the middle of the lot, Jackson cradling the old woman, Stiles beside Danny with his hand somewhere around the small of his back, although it doesn't settle on him.

Lydia gives him her usual look. Cool, calculating, considering. He hates that expression, he tries to smile at her. "So, werewolves," he says, and her lips twist into a smirk.

"It's absurd how long it took you to figure it out."

"He didn't." Jackson speaks over the little old lady's head. The little old lady has elicited exactly zero comments, no strange looks. Like Danny's the piece that doesn't fit in this equation. "We had to tell him."

"To be fair, it's not the first thing you'd think of." Allison reaches into a bag hanging from her shoulder and pulls out a miniature crossbow—a crossbow!—and Derek shakes his head.

"We're going in peacefully," he tells her. "For now."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Has that ever worked for us, Hale?"

"It might this time." Jackson hefts the woman, like she's a bag of lacrosse sticks, like she's _nothing_.

"Let's go." Scott waves a hand toward the woods. Derek glances around at the others.

"Allison and Boyd, you should stay." Boyd looks like he's going to fight, but Derek says, "No, stay with the cars. You're too volatile right now—which is understandable, but we need this to be calm. And Allison, you keep your weapons with you. Danny? Do you want to come?"

Danny looks at Allison, whose grip is white on the strap of her bag, and at Boyd, whose eyes are still glowing off and on, and he nods. Derek nods back, then turns to face the trees.

Danny keeps pace with Stiles as they approach the woods. Lydia is a few steps ahead of them, just behind Jackson, and Scott and Derek and Isaac are at the front, breaking the way through the branches and the weeds, not even bothering to try to be quiet.

The alphas have a camp set up about a half mile in. It's just a half-circle of green and yellow tents, surrounding a fire pit full of charred wood and ashes, with a few pans sitting in a pile by the circle of rocks, and three alphas—a woman and two identical men, teenagers, standing in the same way, angry eyes locked on Jackson—all of them looking strong and terrifying. Like nightmares, with their eyes red and their teeth long. Danny's heart goes crazy and Stiles reaches out and grabs onto his wrist, tugging on it until he tilts his head and Stiles hisses, "It's _fine_," like that'll make a difference at all.

They don't look surprised to see the woman in Jackson's arms. Angry, but not surprised.

"That's how you want to play it?" The woman asks, hair long and shiny brown, hands on hips, elongated teeth making her words come out lisped, come out silly, and it's crazy that the sound makes Danny want to laugh.

"One of your pack for one of ours," Derek growls. He hasn't transformed. Yet, he hasn't transformed _yet_, and Danny is scared, nervous about seeing a werewolf on this side. One of the supposed good guys, one of the guys he's standing with. A monster.

"I don't know," the woman draws the words out. "I don't think your threat is all that serious. Would you really hurt a defenseless old lady? Really? Aren't there hunters around here? Wouldn't that," she raises her hands, her fingers ending in claws, and it's so ugly that Danny wants to turn and run, "upset them?"

"Not necessarily," Derek says. "Not if she doesn't stay human."

The twin to the right of the woman growls. "That's my grandmother. I can assure you she very much wants to stay human. Your hunters won't appreciate you biting her."

Derek chuckles. "You give our hunters too much credit. As a werewolf sympathizer, she's at risk. And if I bite her, well. I think we can probably make Argent understand."

"His daughter will understand, anyway," Scott's using Allison like a chess piece in a bad heist film, "and she's the one who matters these days." Danny feels how ridiculous this is, feels it even as the three alphas glance at each other.

"You wouldn't bite her. She's old," the twin to the left says, and as Danny adjusts to how nightmarish the man looks he can hear the thread of worry beneath his lisped words.

"She'll either die or she'll live longer, get stronger." Derek doesn't seem to care, and Danny doesn't know him well enough to know if this is an act. He doesn't know any of them, it's occurring to him. Maybe Jackson a little. Not Stiles, not Lydia. Certainly not Isaac, and not the others back at the cars, and not the girl they're trying to save. What, he wonders, what is he doing here?

"You won't." The woman steps forward, claws out, teeth out, eyes inhuman, and Derek steps forward, too, and Danny can't see his face but his ears are suddenly pointy so he must be wolf-like, too, animalistic, wrong. Or is it right, for him?

"Are you willing to risk that?" His words are lisped, but only just. "Give us Erica back." There's a command underlying that, and Danny feels a tug in his chest. If he had Erica, he'd hand her over right now.

"She abandoned you." The woman seems entirely unconcerned. "She ran away and found us. Why do you want her back? She doesn't want to be back with you."

"Liar," Jackson accuses, sounding satisfied. Sounding proud of himself.

The twins throw up their hands in unison, all their similarities striking and disconcerting as they move. The woman shifts forward an inch. "Maybe so, maybe so. But it is true we don't want to give her to you."

Jackson steps forward, aligning himself beside Derek. The old woman's left arm is swinging limp. He shifts her weight and settles himself towards Derek. "Derek can bite her. Easy."

"Do you really want your grandmother to belong to another pack?" Stiles speaks up for the first time, and three red gazes lock on him.

"You've got liabilities, Derek," one of the twins says the words like they taste sweet. They rumble from his throat and smooth out into the air.

"As do you." Derek's hand snaps out and catches at the old woman's hanging arm without his gaze leaving the faces in front of him.

"You want Erica?" The woman shrugs. "Bring her out." Her voice is barely louder at all, but two men come out of the far tent, one wearing sunglasses, his steps a little shuffling, but his lips tensed in a dangerous smile. The other has a shaved head, his walk an easy predatory movement. Their clawed fingers wrapped around the wrists of the blonde-haired girl. A girl Danny once pitied.

They stop behind the first three and Derek's head jerks back. "What did you do?" He drops the old woman's wrist and makes like he's about to leap forward, but Isaac and Scott grab onto his shoulders, and he stops moving. He just stands still, as Erica raises her face to them, looking over the shoulders of the twin on the left and the woman in the center. She looks devastated, wrecked. Her lips are garish red, her hair is wild and long and tangled. Her eyelids are dark and her leather jacket is dirt-smeared and scratched. They did that to her, made a mockery of all her badass posturing.

But that's not why Derek's standing the way he is, why all the wolves have suddenly frozen around them.

Because Erica's eyes are red, glowing bright at her old pack.

"She didn't like killing, much. We expected her to take to it. I, personally, was a little disappointed." The woman smirks at Derek, smirks around long teeth, and Danny watches as he shrinks, his shoulders drawing up around his jaw.

"Erica." Isaac's voice is quiet, so quiet, "do you want to come home?"

She looks at him, her red eyes disconcerting and wrong, and nods like she's not hopeful.

"Jackson," Derek says, and that's it.

Jackson holds out the old woman. One of the twins takes her, weirdly gentle with his teeth still long and his eyes still red. His clawed fingers barely brush the fabric of her blouse.

The two alphas holding Erica release her, and she moves skittishly, shoulders drawn in, steps short, around the alpha pack. She doesn't turn around when she stops beside Derek, facing away from the campsite, towards the woods. Stiles moves from beside Danny to reach out a fist to her. She stares at it, then slowly lifts her fist to bump against his. He doesn't get a smile out of it, but her eyes darken, lose their glow. Look bloodshot but nearly natural.

"She'll wake up in ten minutes," Stiles tells the alphas. "It was good doing business with you."

The alphas don't speak as Derek and his pack and Danny turn and head back through the woods. They don't make it far before there's the sound of crashing leaves and Boyd appears before them. He skids to a stop at the sight of Erica and takes in two harsh and fast breaths before slowly lifting his chin, baring his throat, and Danny hears a sigh escape Derek's mouth as Erica very gently presses her nose against the bump of Boyd's Adam's apple. They stand still like that for long enough that Danny considers moving on on his own, except he knows that's both stupid and rude.

Finally Erica steps back from Boyd and they all continue on in silence. Allison is sitting on the hood of her car when they reach the parking lot. She looks at Erica and nods, and Erica shifts closer to Stiles, so he's almost sandwiched between Danny and her. Allison's smile tightens, and she slides from the hood and opens her car door without another word.

They break apart quickly. Isaac and Scott and Derek and Boyd and Erica squeeze into Scott's mom's car, and Jackson comes over to Danny and looks at him, just looks at him. "You all right?" he asks.

Danny shakes his head, then nods. "I'll be fine."

"I'll drive you home," Stiles tells Danny, and Jackson looks relieved to be excused the task, which—doesn't hurt, really, because if they were alone right now Danny would probably yell at him, and Jackson has to know that. He'll want to give him time to cool off.

Jackson leaves without another word. Lydia brushes her lips against Danny's cheek and says, "Call me when you decide what you want to do." And Danny nods, because you can't do much else when faced with Lydia Martin.

Then it's just him and Stiles and Stiles's Jeep and that white Camry, which Danny very badly wants to key. Stiles crosses the parking lot, kneels down beside one of the broken-down stands from the flea market, and starts digging through his pocket.

"What're you," Danny's voice comes out rough, "What're you doing?"

"Getting rid of evidence." Stiles sticks the syringe in among the weeds and the dirt beneath the stand. "It's dangerous to leave one of these out here, probably, but it's more dangerous to throw it away, and I don't want to go over to Deaton's to dispose of it properly. He's away this week and Scott is a little—preoccupied—and so I'd have to break in, which, probably not a good idea. Plus, my dad is super suspicious these days." Danny doesn't say, "Understandably," but he wants to. Stiles jerks to his feet and wipes his hands on his thighs, leaving a light dusting of dirt on the fabric of his jeans. "Want waffles? Or something?"

"Not. No, not today." Danny walks back to Stiles's Jeep.

Neither of them says anything else until Stiles pulls up outside of Danny's house. "If you need to talk," Stiles unlocks the door, "or anything, you have my number, right? I get that it's…this is all a lot."

"Yeah, thanks." Danny opens the door and then he looks back in and says, "I mean, just…Erica's back. That's good."

Stiles flashes him a grin so bright it's almost too much. "That's really good, man. It'll be fine. It'll be good." His grin fades even as Danny lingers, half in and half out of the Jeep. "Except."

"Except?"

"She's an alpha now, I don't know…I don't know how that'll go."

Danny shakes his head. "I don't understand."

"You know," Stiles cocks his head, looks at him with eyes that don't leave his face for a second, expression considering, "I don't really understand, either. But Erica _is_ back. And that is good, no matter what else."

"Okay." Danny takes a breath. "Okay. See you later, then?"

"Later." It doesn't escape Danny's notice that Stiles waits until he's inside his house to pull away.

That night, the local news stations have a new feature story. The photograph of Erica that's been plastered all over the Internet and the town and the shitty Beacon Hills papers is shown in full color on every station. The reporters are celebrating, practically popping champagne bottles on screen.

"She showed up at the police station, completely out of it, saying she didn't remember anything," Danny's dad says as he shells shrimp for the risotto he's making. "Or that's what I hear from George. Said she just walked in looking like hell and broke down into tears. Said it was so sad she almost had the whole department going, even the sheriff. And you know how tough Stilinski is."

Danny thinks of the way Stiles had buried a syringe in an abandoned flea market and muttered about his dad and suspicions. He thinks about Erica's red eyes. He thinks about Derek's sigh, and the way Jackson had said, "You're lying," like he won a trivia contest, and he thinks about Stiles smiling and saying it would be okay. He thinks about Stiles's steady hands.

"You knew her, right?" his dad asks, and he shakes his head.

"She's in my year," he stresses the present tense, the fact that Erica is still here, is here again. "But we don't really have the same friends." Is that changing? Does he want that to change?

His dad makes a considering sound. "Well, anyway, I hope they're able to find out what happened to her."

You really don't want to know, Danny thinks, setting out forks on the table and pouring water into glasses with aggressive shoves of the faucet. He almost wishes he didn't know. But then there's this part of him that wouldn't take back all of this morning's ignorance for anything. And that's terrifying.

:::

Danny goes to bed that night feeling tense but almost okay. He wakes up the next morning feeling like he's been stretched out, all his joints tight and muscles sore, his jaw aching from the way he was grinding his teeth through the night, and does not move from his bed for two days.

That's a lie. He moves to go to the bathroom. He doesn't shower. He eats chips and pretzels and drinks so much Mountain Dew that his mom threatens to cut him off. Julia, his little sister—who's fifteen, God, and so not so little—tries to get him to tell her where he got his fake ID. Repeatedly. For two days. And still he doesn't leave his house.

On the third morning after he saw Erica in the backseat of a car and flipped his world on its head, he rolls out of bed at seven in the morning and puts on running shorts and a t-shirt. He starts out with no clear idea of where he's going, just a latent restlessness in his feet that keeps him moving.

It keeps him moving until he's outside Stiles's house. Once there, he hesitates, jogging in place at the end of the walk before going up the front steps and knocking—not pounding, this time, nothing frantic—at the front door.

The sheriff answers it, which is probably something Danny should have expected but didn't, and he looks at Danny for a few silent seconds before saying, "Mr. Mahealani," and Danny remembers being thirteen and being stared down by those eyes, but he stomps on that memory and smiles his practiced unassuming smile.

"Good morning, Sheriff. I was looking for Stiles?"

The sheriff steps back and lets Danny inside. Danny stands in the entranceway, sweat starting to pool at the base of his spine, and watches as the sheriff glances at the stairs. "It's a little early to expect my son to be out of bed. What'd you want him for?"

"Oh," Danny says, feeling suddenly stupid, because _of course _Stiles isn't going to be up at 7:15 on a Thursday in the summer, who would? He wouldn't even, except that he spent the last two days trying to erase vivid images of werewolves from his brain. "Right, sorry. I just was out for a run and passing by and I thought he might want to join? We're all doing cross country in the fall, thought it might be good to get a head start on training." And the sheriff brightens, his lips splitting into a grin and his face lightening.

"You know what? That sounds healthy and _normal_ and not at all like Stiles. I will wake him up for that."

"You don't," Danny begins, but the sheriff is already up the stairs, moving fast up them the way Stiles had three days before, when he was running around because Danny had seen Erica. Erica, who's fine. Erica, who's a werewolf.

Danny's new world is going to take some getting used to. He's not entirely sure that he's going to be able to make it ever seem normal.

The sheriff comes down the stairs much slower than he went up them. "Of course," he mutters, "of course he's not there. I'm so," and then he looks up, seeming to remember Danny, and grimaces. "Sorry, son, looks as if Stiles has yet to return from wherever the _hell_ he went last night."

The sheriff is pulling a cellphone out of his pocket, and Danny's heart is seizing. Because what if the alphas came back for revenge? They could have. They would have. If they haven't yet, they probably will. What if they got Stiles? What if—and this is selfish—what if Danny is the one who has to break it to the sheriff? What if he has to shake up Stiles's dad's world the way Jackson and Stiles and Derek and Boyd did his?

But the sheriff has his phone to his ear and is speaking into it, speaking loudly, and Danny knows that if he weren't here that would probably be a yell. The volume on the sheriff's phone is up loud enough that Danny can just make out Stiles's responses as he sputters at his dad's accusations.

"Sorry, Dad, sorry, I'm at Scott's, we lost track of time, I fell asleep, I'm just at Scott's, I promise."

"Why is your Jeep in the driveway? Why didn't you leave me a note? Or call?"

"Allison picked me up, and I didn't think I'd be staying the night. I told you, I fell asleep. Accidentally. It was an accidental sleepover, I swear."

Danny shifts, stepping back toward the door, and the sheriff waves at him. "The reason I even realized that you weren't in your room was because your friend stopped by."

"Friend?" Stiles sounds, God, confused, as he continues, "Everyone's here, who…?"

"Danny Mahealani." Danny has never heard so much meaning packed into his name. It's a question and a statement so full that it sounds heavy as it falls from the sheriff's mouth. The sheriff offers him a small smile as he says it, as if to soften the weight of it.

As soon as Danny's name is out, his phone starts buzzing. He doesn't glance at the screen as he pulls it from the sleeve around his upper arm. "Yeah?" he says into it.

"Danny." It's Scott, voice quiet so that the sheriff wouldn't have been able to hear even if he hadn't been distracted by saying something about responsibility to Stiles. "Is everything okay? Did something happen? The alphas didn't—"

"No, no, no," Danny hurries, and he feels an unfamiliar flush rushing up his neck. He's not used to this, reaching out and finding nothing. "No, I just was on a run and stopped by to see if Stiles wanted to join. Cross country, you know?"

"Oh," and then Scott's voice comes from further away, "Hey, Stiles, Danny wanted to know if you want to go on a run."

And Danny can hear Stiles's response through his dad's phone, and this is so weird, definitely among Danny's most awkward moments. Not that he has a list. "Oh, that's why he came by? A run? Ew, um, ow, Jacks—Okay, yeah. Yeah, I'd like to go for a run."

"He'll go. You can come by? I'll text you the address."

"Sure," Danny tells Scott and hangs up as the sheriff is saying into his phone, "You come home straight after your run and I swear to God, Stiles, we are going to have a serious discussion about responsibility and how much it will suck for you if you don't keep me updated on your life."

"Dad," Stiles protests, and then says, "Fine, whatever, have a good day at work," and the sheriff hangs up, shaking his head.

"Do you need a ride over to Scott's?"

But Danny's already stepping back toward the door. "No, it's fine. He's only a mile or so away. Stiles isn't exactly in top shape yet, it'll probably help that I'm a little worn out."

The sheriff huffs. "You should run a marathon first. I haven't seen him do anything since lacrosse ended."

"He'll be great. He's got a runner's build," and then Danny flees, because what a weird thing to notice about someone and _seriously _what an awkward thing to say to their dad.

He doesn't look at his phone until he's halfway down the block, and he's not exactly surprised to see that the address Scott texted him is that of an apartment a mile and a half across town, in the opposite direction from Scott's neighborhood. He cuts through someone's backyard and starts back the way he came.

The apartment complex consists of three rows of double-storied identical miniature houses, complete with balconies lined with white picket fences, shiny white-lined parking spaces, neatly trimmed hedges, and golden numbers nailed to the doors. It does not look like the sort of place where anyone involved in this werewolf shit would fit.

But there Stiles is, sitting on the curb in front of the first row of apartments when Danny jogs in, his knees up around his chin and wearing a pair of basketball shorts rolled a few times around his waist. "Derek's," he gestures at the shorts when Danny comes to a halt in front of him. "Also Derek's," he gestures at the apartment directly behind him, number 15. "Just in case you need to know sometime."

Danny nods. "Am I not allowed in now?"

"Do you want to go in now? I mean, we can. Almost everyone's there."

Danny looks at the closed door of the disconcertingly nice apartment and shrugs. "I'll see them later. Did something happen last night?"

Stiles pushes to his feet, adjusting the too-big shorts—and does he knows what it means to wear someone's clothes, the belonging that implies?—and shakes his head. "We're just trying," he glances over his shoulder at the door, everyone must be listening, "I mean we figure the alphas will be coming to get us, so we wanted to plan."

Danny nods, and turns toward the exit. "Danny," Stiles whines, a few steps behind him. "Do we really need to do this? Can't we get breakfast or something? Want to go discuss puppies and magic over eggs and bacon?"

Danny just starts running, keeping his pace slow until he hears Stiles's footsteps behind him. He speeds up a little then, and Stiles matches his strides, his breath steady, managing to keep up for a while in relative silence.

"So I imagine you have, like, questions," Stiles says between breaths about ten minutes into their run.

"We're running," Danny replies, breath starting to come in faster bursts, "but this afternoon you and me are going to go get you new shoes and then we're going to have a conversation."

"I don't need," Stiles begins, but Danny just kicks out slightly and his foot lands on the straggling end of one of Stiles's brown shoelaces where it trails from the ratty Nikes, which are dirt-stained and grass-smeared and probably have a few holes in the soles.

"Those'll give you shin splints in a week. They look like someone ate them, spat them up, and then you wore them while running through a swamp."

"Well, the last is true," Stiles admits, voice coming fast, "there were kappas involved. I can't be held responsible."

"We're replacing your shoes. You're keeping these ones for chasing monsters." Danny tries not to think about kappas. He thinks they were mentioned in Harry Potter. He doesn't think they were friendly.

"If my dad ever…lets me out again," he directs them down a shady side-street, "I will go shopping with you."

"Sorry about that," Danny feels a twist in his gut. "I didn't think."

"You shouldn't have had to think. And it's not the first time, don't worry about it. Not your fault at all." He looks over at Danny, a quick twist of his head before he faces the road ahead of them again. "I don't get why you stopped by, though?"

"I wanted someone to run with, and everyone else is apparently a supernatural creature. Plus, I was passing your house. Plus, you had said you wanted to do cross in the fall. Not an easy sport to jump into."

"Yeah," Stiles wheezes, and underneath the breathing he doesn't exactly sound displeased.

The run continues on in companionable silence, and Danny feels almost normal. Except that, apparently, he and Stiles Stilinski are now sort of friends. Something. They're something, and Danny's not exactly sure how he feels about that. It was his doing, though. He knows that Stiles would have left him alone after they got Erica back, knows that the last two days of silence were a respectful signal that if he wanted to ignore all of this, he was allowed to.

"I want in," he says, as they reach Stiles's doorstep, having taken a much more circuitous route to get back than he had originally taken to get to Derek's apartment.

Stiles cocks his head, looking up from where he's leaning over with his hands on his thighs. "Yeah?"

Danny nods. "Yeah."

"All right. I'll text you about shoe shopping, if I still have access to my phone." He wipes a hand across his sweaty forehead and looks over his shoulder at his house. "Thanks for the run. It was, um, good? Something. Do you want a ride back to your place?"

"Nah, I'm good. Expect me tomorrow at 7:00."

"Danny," Stiles whines again, and Danny just turns and waves a hand over his shoulder.

"It's happening, Stilinski." He slows his pace considerably on his way back home, but he doesn't stop running.

Stiles texts him later that afternoon. _My dad says yes to shoe shopping, yes to running, but no to everything else. I think he thinks you're gonna be a good influence. Wanna get me a good fake ID? Jungle Friday?_

Danny stares at the screen of his phone and shakes his head. Slow. _Pick you up at 3. Good. No. Absolutely not. The last time you were there some freaky shit went down. Which you will be explaining._

There's no response, but Stiles comes out as soon as he pulls up outside of his house, like he was watching for him.

He looks a little twitchy as he slides into the passenger seat. "Look," he begins as soon as Danny pulls away from the curb, "there are some things that I can tell you about all of this. How it started, how we got involved, some of the more recent stuff that happened. But there's some things…it's not my place, okay? And you need to talk to whoever was involved because I'm Google, I'm the wolfsbane and the mountain ash and the contact person, but I'm not—I'm not at the center of any of this. So you can ask questions, and I'll tell you what I can. All right?"

Danny signals to pull onto the entrance ramp to the freeway. "You realize I don't understand anything, right? I know, like, literally zero percent of what's been going on. Maybe, _maybe_, point zero one percent. So everything you just said—sure, I'll agree now, but can you just give me a basic rundown of what we're dealing with here?"

By the time they've bought Stiles a new pair of running shoes and are sitting in the food court eating Wendy's burgers and curly fries, Danny knows more about werewolves than he really wanted to. Stiles is smooshing his last fry in ketchup and staring at the two large Cokes sitting between them, refusing to meet Danny's eyes.

"Those're the basics," he says, "but there's something else you should probably know. Everything else, like I said, you should talk to Jackson and Scott and Derek and Boyd about. And Lydia. Partially Lydia for this too, I think, but you should know," he inhales, deep and slow, and says, "you know how we said that Derek's uncle…um, passed on?"

Danny rolls his eyes. Like anything else Stiles has said in the last two hours has been even passably sane by any potential eavesdroppers' standards. "Yeah," he answers, when Stiles kicks his leg under the table.

"Well, he, er, undid that."

He undid that. "He _undid_ that?" Danny lowers his voice. "Is he a zombie?"

"What?" Stiles jerks back, salt-covered fingers flinging up. "No!"

"Well then what?"

"He's just, um, back. Normal, like. Or as normal as an insane undead formerly-alpha murderous werewolf can be."

"Jesus Christ," Danny swears, and Stiles grins at him like he's told a great joke. "Don't," Danny warns. "This is absurd. How?"

"That's a Lydia thing, I think, like I said. But she doesn't like to talk about it. Maybe with you. You're special."

"Gee, thanks, Stilinski."

"No, it's a good thing."

They sit in silence for a while, Stiles slurping from his Coke and Danny not eating, staring at his food and trying to force his worldview to change to accept _resurrection_ as an actual thing that happens.

"Is he around? Like, does he live with Derek?"

Stiles shakes his head. "He and Derek reached some sort of an agreement, I think. I don't know the details, but he lives a few towns over. I haven't seen him in weeks. He'll probably be around more now, because the alphas are back. But then, it's been a few days and no one's really mentioned him."

"Okay." Danny watches Stiles as he shifts, fingers playing against the table. "I don't think I'll get that through my head, like, ever, so I'm just gonna ignore it. What about Erica?"

Stiles shrugs. "They're still working that out, I think. Right now, she's trying not to be—she's—not good. And her parents aren't really letting her out of their sight, so it's hard. But the pack is trying to get rid of the alphas and trying to keep her out of it but she's not the sort to sit out and also, she's an alpha now, so if she could harness that power than that could be useful in beating them, but, like—I don't know. This is not necessarily something she wants to be involved in, is Derek's argument. Mine is that she'll be good, helpful."

Danny nods, spinning his Coke cup in wet rings over the patterned plastic of the tabletop. "And what about Derek?" Because he knows about Derek Hale, knows his story, but Stiles and the rest seem to really _know_ him, and that confuses Danny. Maybe not for Boyd and Isaac and Jackson, because Stiles says some connection comes with the bite, but for Stiles and Scott and Lydia and Allison—Allison, who, according to Stiles has every reason to hate Derek, who has every reason to hate her right back—but they still seem to know him. Stiles, especially.

"Scott and I got him arrested a couple of times," Stiles has already admitted this, but this time the confession has a sort of amused stretch to it, "and then we realized that he just had no clue what he was doing, and neither did we, so after some, um, drama of a lizard-ly nature, we managed to come to a compromise. He's okay, just really messed up. I think he's getting better."

Stiles has been dropping hints about lizards all afternoon, but Danny really doesn't want to know. He thinks that's something he was involved in, on the periphery, and something Jackson was at the heart of, and he doesn't know if he's ready for it. If he's not, though, he does know that he shouldn't have told Stiles that he was in. He decides to ignore the lizard part of Stiles's statement for the moment, and asks, "But what about you and Derek?"

"Me and…?" Stiles trails off, gaze jerking from Danny's cardboard container of fries in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"You were wearing his shorts yesterday." Danny pushes his fries a few inches towards Stiles, and he reaches in without looking away from Danny.

"Because you wanted to go for a run and I only had jeans with me."

"He listens to you."

"They all learned that listening to me is sometimes a good idea the hard way." Stiles stuffs three fries in his mouth. "No, dude, look, it's not like I'm not attracted to him, because I do have eyes, and I think he's a—not a good person, but I like him, most of the time, you know?—but I would never in a million years go there. Not ever. Not that he would have me. I'm pretty sure he's like 95% straight, at least. But in this weird alternate universe you're imagining where he would, no. I just do not think that would be a good idea. I don't think it would end well."

Danny nods. "Okay. So if I wanted to test your theory on his straightness," he says, and Stiles's eyes widen and his lips part and he looks so ridiculously surprised that Danny can't keep a straight face.

He laughs into the straw of his Coke and Stiles throws his head back, his whole body shaking.

"You're such an asshole," Stiles says when he settles back into his chair. "God, just picturing what Derek would _do_ if you came onto him."

"He would probably just growl at me. I get the feeling growl is all these guys do."

Stiles tilts his head like he's actually considering that. "Sometimes they roar. I don't know if he'd be pissed enough, but wait until you see it. It's pretty funny. Or alternatively terrifying, if it's directed at you."

"Maybe I'll try it out, just to see how he'd react."

"I'd love to see that." Stiles stands and pushes his containers into the swinging door of the trash can. Danny follows him and the two weave among the overwhelming number of preteens to get to the mall exit.

On the drive back to town they come up with increasingly ridiculous ideas to get Derek shirtless again, and by the time they pull up to Stiles's house they're both blinking back tears from laughter.

Stiles bites his lip, hesitating before he gets out of the car. "I know you probably don't want my advice," he says, staring at where his dad's car is parked in the driveway, "but I really think you should talk to Jackson. And I'm happy you've decided to join this—not least for the effect you have on our resident douche-bro, no offense—but I also want to make sure…this is dangerous, you know? It's really dangerous and it's hard, keeping it a secret, and it's scary at times and it's interesting as hell and it can be absurdly fun, God, but it's not exactly…it's probably not healthy."

"I'm in," is all Danny says, and Stiles nods.

"All right, then. See you way too fucking early tomorrow." He slams the too hard when he gets out, but he pats a hand against the hood as he passes, as if to make up for it.

:::

Danny doesn't call Jackson until four days after he and Stiles go shoe shopping, four runs after their first run, each of which begins with Stiles mumbling nonsense at him and ends with Stiles telling him to talk to his asshole of a best friend.

The fourth day, Danny says, "Fine, okay, all right," and Stiles nods, like he expected that.

"If you need to talk after, I'll be here. Grounded. Except for in the mornings, when my dad lets me out to get tortured by you."

Danny flashes him a grin, but his gut is already twisting with nerves, and Stiles must see some sign of that on his face, because he stops on his front step and faces Danny. "Look, what Jackson's going to tell you, it won't change a thing about how everything is right now. Everything will stay the same, it'll just be—you'll just understand more."

"It'll change how it is for me," Danny says, knowing this without question, "Thanks, though, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs and opens his door. He disappears inside his house and Danny gets into the car, driving home and inventing all the various ways that the lizard problem could fit into this horror story he's wandered into, fits into Jackson's life, fits into his life.

It ends up being worse than even the worst thing he thinks of.

He and Jackson are sitting in his bedroom, Danny on the bed and Jackson on the chair in the corner, and Danny doesn't say anything for a long time after Jackson finishes telling him about the kanima, about being the kanima.

The idea of Jackson killing is not as absurd as it would have been before he found out about werewolves. After all, if Stiles Stilinski can tell him that killing a person, werewolf, whatever, was a "joint effort" involving Stiles himself, then clearly anyone can be a killer.

But for Jackson to kill without agency, without remembering it—that probably shouldn't be the part that scares him, but it is. For him to be controlled by Matt, that means that there are things in this world that are even more dangerous than werewolves and hunters and Stiles's brief mention of kappas. That means that there is a chance that Danny's own choices might get taken away from him, and that is not—that is just not okay.

"Danny." Jackson finally breaks the silence, and Danny shakes his head.

"No, no, don't worry. It's just, man, that sucks, that that happened to you." Understatement of the freaking year, seriously, and Danny feels a little ashamed for having said it. "It doesn't change anything. This morning, Stiles said that everything was the same whether I knew or not and that's true," it's not, it's not, like Danny knew it wouldn't be, but Jackson doesn't need to know that. He might tell Stiles, later, just how wrong he was, but Jackson can believe this.

"You're lying," Jackson tells him. He rests a finger against his earlobe, smirks half-heartedly. "I can tell. But…thank you for saying it."

Danny flushes. He should've known that. "What else do you know?"

"A lot. Derek's good at cataloguing things. Right now, it's more overwhelming than anything. Eventually I'll be able to distinguish scents, heartbeats. I can already tell you've been spending more time with Stilinski than usual. I know most of the pack by smell."

"That is disgusting." Danny shakes his head. "No, really, that's nasty, Jackson."

"It's not like everyone smells _bad_." Jackson looks affronted, eyes flashing bright before he calms a little, then his lips loosen in a full-on grin. "Except Stilinski. He stinks."

Danny chucks his pillow at his friend. "Shut up."

"Hey," Jackson catches the pillow out of the air, drops it on the floor, "you don't want me to push, I won't push. Just don't expect McCall to be as considerate. He's been oozing jealousy everywhere since his bestie started hanging out with you."

Danny feels something tighten in his chest. "Look, it's not…you know what, never mind. Do you want to play a game of lacrosse? Get out of here, get some people together?"

"Who?" Jackson asks, already pulling out his phone.

"The rest," Danny suggests, and Jackson makes a grumbling noise, but when they get to the lacrosse field Scott and Isaac are there, and Boyd, and even Stiles, who says that his dad is at work and he hitched a ride with Scott, so he probably won't get caught.

Erica drives up just as they're splitting into teams, and everyone except for Jackson stops talking when she gets out of the car dressed in Nike shorts and a tank top and comes toward them. "Think you boys can keep up with me?" Her tone is so close to natural that Danny starts wondering if maybe she's not as broken as he was starting to think she was.

"I know I can't." Stiles tosses her Jackson's extra stick from where it was lying on the grass by his feet, and she bares her teeth at him as she catches it.

The teams are uneven now, but that doesn't matter at all. They fall into laughing heaps as they crash into each other, the wolves colliding at rates of speed that would break Danny and Stiles's to pieces, and Stiles and Danny leap out of their way as they careen towards them.

They end up covered in summer-dead grass and sweaty, not leaving until late in the afternoon, just as the air is starting to cool a little. Stiles waves at Danny and calls, "See you tomorrow," as he climbs into Scott's car, making something deep inside Danny really ridiculously happy.

It's not a feeling he's ever expected to be directed at Stiles, and Jackson shoots him a look as they get into his car, like he's biting his tongue to keep from pushing, like he said he would.

:::

Exactly three weeks after Erica's rescue, Stiles calls Danny at seven in the evening and says, "Pack meeting at Derek's stat," before hanging up.

Danny had thought, naively, he knows, that the silence from the alphas might have meant that they'd gotten bored with Derek's pack, that their attempt to fuck with it by fucking with Erica had failed and so they'd moved on.

He drives to Derek's, foot heavy on the gas pedal, and berates himself. Because maybe the alphas were dumb, maybe they were, but they could not possibly have been _that_ dumb. And so now he gets to see what it actually meant when he told Stiles that he wanted in.

Shouts of "Come in," meet his single knock, and he pushes the unlocked door open to find everyone crowded into a tiny living room. Boyd and Erica are pressed together in an armchair in the far corner of the room, and Derek is sitting in a La-Z Boy in the other corner. The rest are squished together on a couch, except for Stiles, who sits on the floor, leaning against the Wal-Mart style cart carrying a smallish flat screen TV. Peter isn't there, for which Danny is grateful, even though he's sure the undead wolf's absence doesn't have anything to do with him.

Stiles moves over a little so Danny can rest his back against the TV stand too. It's only after he sits that he notices that Jackson had had a small space beside him on the couch, and when Danny settles on the floor Jackson gets closer to Allison as everyone on the couch moves to fill in the space that was supposed to be Danny's. No one says anything, for which he's relieved. He's not sure yet exactly why he gravitates toward Stiles these days, but he's been noticing it more and more, and he thinks it's something he needs to sort out soon. At least before Jackson breaks his uncharacteristic silence on the matter and decides to be either weirdly nice about it or begins acting like an absolute dick.

"What's happened?" Danny asks, trying to avoid Scott's gaze, because Scott is staring at him, eyes narrowed, head tilted towards Isaac beside him.

"The alphas left town for a little while. They just got back last night," Derek explains. Everyone is avoiding looking at Erica so much that they may as well be staring at her. "I was running out in the woods over where their old camp was, and their scent is all over the area again."

"And we still have no fucking clue what they want." Stiles's hands are in fists, tapping against his thighs. Danny watches them.

"Erica, maybe?" Jackson suggests, cueing a growl from Boyd and a light smack to his shoulder from Lydia. "Not that we should give her up. But, that's what they wanted last time."

"No it's not. They didn't want me. They just got me." Her voice is rougher than Danny's ever heard it, and he keeps staring at Stiles's hands because he imagines her eyes are red. Erica with red eyes is more unnatural than Derek. She looks sad every time she lets them surface, like she's got the whole process, the whole kidnapping and murder and whatever else happened while she was gone, playing on a loop in their red color.

"Do you know what they want?" Stiles speaks, even though Boyd is growling again, a warning sound that makes Danny want to shift a little closer to Stiles.

"Territory, of course," Lydia answers for her.

"I don't know if it's that simple. I do know that they think that it will be easy to get whatever it is they want. We're vulnerable."

"They think."

"We sort of are, Stiles." Scott shrugs. "We aren't exactly set up to defend much of anything, let alone defeat a pack of alphas."

Derek glances along the couch, at the betas and the humans, and then his gaze lands on Erica and Boyd. "Is it worth trying to talk to them?"

"Possibly." Erica picks at a hole in her jeans, her eyes their normal color.

Derek sighs, a long sound in a tense room, and then asks, his voice extremely diffident, "Would you recommend talking to them? Say, if Isaac and I went? Would you say that was a good idea?"

Even Danny sees what this is. Derek wants to have Erica making decisions. He wants her to be an alpha in practice. According to Stiles, he's just only learning himself, and now he wants to train her too. It is really unexpected and also, Danny thinks, although he can't be sure, a really good sign.

Erica is still for so long that Danny half expects Derek to repeat his question. But then she nods. "Yes," she says, voice soft. "Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. You and Isaac, just to get a feel for what they're thinking. I wouldn't expect much from it, but it's better than—they should know that we know they're here."

"Okay. We'll do that, then." Stiles shifts, and Danny glances over at him. He's got his phone out, is scrolling through a Google search on the screen. Derek continues, "Allison, is your father aware of this?"

The room goes breathless, the reference to hunters sucking the air from it. "No." Allison's voice is quiet. She's sitting between Isaac and Lydia, and both of them move towards her enough that Danny notices from where he's sitting. Allison looks at Erica, who's staring at her hands as if entertaining the possibility of letting claws rip out of them. Allison keeps talking, her voice wavering a little. "I know I'm not trustworthy. I know I lost that, and I know that you don't understand why I did…what I did. I'm not asking for forgiveness, I'm never going to ask for forgiveness. But I don't want everything in my life to be based on some decisions I made because I lost my whole life," Erica growls at that, and Allison nods, like she understands. "I know I'm not unique in that. But I want—will you consider what I have to say?"

Scott shifts where he sits on Isaac's other side, and Stiles shakes his head just a tiny bit as Isaac sets a hand on Scott's knee, and then the whole room stills, waiting on Erica.

"We've all suffered." Erica pins Allison with a glare. It's human, but it's still earth shaking in its intensity. "You're right that that's not yours alone. What _is_ yours, unfortunately, are the hunters. So give us their perspective, Argent. What do you want to say?"

"We don't tell the hunters about this. We don't let my dad in on it. We meet with the alphas, we try to negotiate an agreement. They've done terrible things, but my family has done worse. You all know that." Her gaze skitters, fast, from Erica to Derek, and lands on Stiles. His knee, which had been jumping as the conversation carried on, stops against Danny's thigh. "And will continue to do worse, if my dad becomes aware of this—he's sworn off of hunting, but an alpha pack? I don't think he'd let that go. If he calls in the rest of the family, they'll come. And if they come, they won't leave once they're finished with the alphas. Allying with the alphas—that will probably go better for this pack, in the long run, than allying with hunters. At least so far as I understand werewolf politics. So if my dad can't stop himself, if he starts snooping, if the wolves get too active—we need for them to know that they can't draw attention to themselves."

"Not letting the hunters in is something I can get behind." Erica leans her head against Boyd's shoulder, looking at Allison in consideration. "But you're going to need to be careful, too. Isaac and Derek, they can warn the pack, tell Deucalion and Kali and the rest that the Argents aren't gone. But your dad won't just ignore what _you're_ doing. He thinks you're out of it, too, doesn't he?"

Allison nods, twisting a few dark strands around her finger. "I have 'new friends,' they're great, they're really fun. I go over to their houses all the time."

"They sound really great, I really want to meet them." Lydia's voice is flat, completely without inflection, and Allison smiles, a little embarrassed.

"I don't know if he believes me, but he hasn't been following me anywhere, which is an improvement."

"Erica's right, though. You're going to need to be careful around your dad, if you think—and obviously you're right—that it's a good idea to keep the hunters out of this." Derek's voice is careful; they're all talking around things, and Danny doesn't think that Stiles gave him the whole story on any of this, but the story that story that Stiles did give him is enough to build the tension in the room to a breaking point.

"I will," Allison nods, "I'll be careful."

"But what if," Stiles glances at Erica, then at Derek, "what if the alphas don't want to negotiate? They're clearly strong, stronger than us. And while I don't want the Argents involved, no offense, Allison, just, your dad is okay and you're obviously great but everyone else? Sucked balls. A lot."

"Your point, Stiles?" Scott growls, and Stiles's shoulder brushes against Danny as he straightens his back and starts speaking directly to Scott.

"They're stronger than us. You said that, earlier, and everyone knows it. They took Boyd and Erica no problem." Boyd nods, his chin brushing against Erica's cheek as her hands tighten on her knees. Danny looks away from them. "What if the alphas just decide to kill us all, to get it over with? They'll get injured, maybe one or two of them will get seriously hurt, maybe, _maybe_, one will die, but will it be that big of a loss for them?"

"It would be," Erica says, completely confident. "That's how it works, the alpha pack. They're unnatural. The one thing that keeps them as a pack, that lets them borrow from each other's strength, that bonds them—it's affection, loyalty. They won't betray each other. They have such absurd challenges to get in—becoming an alpha, willingly, not like me, it's just the beginning. To lose someone, they wouldn't consider it."

"So that's why," Derek mutters, and everyone in the room turns their gaze to him. He shrugs his shoulders, dark shirt shifting as he lowers them. "I was wondering what the point of the whole kidnapping exchange was. I'm still not certain about everything—but they wanted to see how far we were willing to go with the grandmother."

"They were testing us." Danny gets it, the way the alphas had looked when they showed up in the woods.

"Playing with us," Stiles mutters. "I don't like that."

"Who would?"

"But the question is," Stiles continues, ignoring Jackson, "is it good or bad that we went for their grandmother?"

"I don't know," Derek looks at Erica, who shakes her head.

"I'm not sure. They never…I wasn't really in their pack. I was in a tent alone most of the time. I picked up some things, but I couldn't figure everything out. I'm still not sure what they wanted with me. I don't know what they're looking for."

"They called us liabilities," Danny remembers, and Stiles nods.

"That means you should avoid going anywhere they might find you alone," Derek says, tone rough.

"Or that we'll make really excellent bait." Lydia lays a hand on Jackson's leg when he starts growling.

"Excellent and dangerous bait." Stiles grins, pressing his hands together like he's plotting.

"Aren't you still grounded?" Derek raises his impressive eyebrows at Stiles.

"Tonight is my last night of grounding." Stiles doesn't look worried.

"So you're celebrating by sneaking out," Danny says.

Stiles waves a hand. "He's working a night shift, it's fine."

"But he'll notice if you come home torn to pieces because you were playing stupid," Scott points out.

"I didn't say we were going to get hurt." Stiles manages to sound annoyed, but his legs are shaking again. Danny thinks he probably expects to get hurt. He probably expects that daily.

"Be careful, Stiles. They're not as dumb as you think they are." Boyd settles an arm around Erica's waist, and Stiles nods.

"But they haven't attacked Danny and me while we're out running. I don't get that, if they're at all interested in getting the pack."

"Maybe they're biding their time the way we've been, trying to figure out what we're doing. Maybe they got worried when we took their grandmother. Realized we'd go pretty far."

Derek nods at Danny. "I think that's a good possibility."

"So we're both circling each other? Who's going to strike first?"

"No one," Derek growls. "Isaac and I are meeting with them, remember? Peacefully, like we talked about seriously five minutes ago."

"Yeah, but after that all goes to shit?" Jackson earns himself a Derek-patented glare. "Who'll attack then?"

"Us, probably, because that one bit a bunch of teenagers." Stiles gestures towards Derek, and Danny tries not to think about the two alpha twins, who were also teenagers, who looked a hell of a lot more dangerous than any member of Derek's pack, including Derek himself.

"I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking." Derek's muttering is loud enough for even the humans to hear as he pushes himself to his feet.

"I wonder that literally all the time," Erica calls after him, her tone miraculously teasing.

Derek returns with two bags of tortilla chips and tosses them on the coffee table. He sets down an open jar of salsa beside them and says, "There's soda in the fridge if anyone wants some," as he reaches for the remote and flicks on the TV. Stiles twists around, lying back on the floor with his feet lifted slightly on the TV stand, and Danny mimics him. They watch reruns of _Seinfeld_ until Scott rolls off the couch, stretching.

"I told my mom I'd be home by midnight."

Everyone stands in stages. Derek's fallen asleep in the chair, and Erica takes a ratty blanket from the back of the couch and tosses it over him.

They leave the apartment in silence, lingering outside for a few minutes before breaking up to get into their separate cars. Danny doesn't see Stiles's Jeep, so he offers, "You want a ride?"

Stiles glances over at where Isaac and Scott are leaning close together against Scott's mom's car, and he nods. "That'd be good, thanks."

They don't speak for a minute or two, as Danny follows Lydia and Boyd and Erica out of the parking lot, and then Danny says, "Want ice cream?" possibly because it's the first night he's been out since he went to Jungle the weekend before he found out about everything, when Jungle suddenly became insignificant, and possibly because he really doesn't want the night to end. What he wants is to keep being surprised by this boy in his passenger seat.

They get Blizzards at Dairy Queen—Stiles's overloaded with pieces of candy, Danny's just plain Oreo—and sit on the hood of the car, the red and white sign glowing over them, yellow headlights speeding by on the road behind them.

"Bet this wasn't what you expected to be doing with your summer."

"It wasn't," Danny agrees.

"So what were the plans of the great Danny Mahealani before he fell into the world of supernatural freaks?"

Danny thinks about that. "Going to Jungle. Getting drunk. Sleeping a lot. Pissing off my little sister. Honestly, this is better."

"Just wait till you almost die. You won't be saying that then." Stiles bumps his shoulder against Danny's, like he's meant it as a joke, but Danny hears the honesty cutting under Stiles's words.

He looks over at Stiles in this fake soft light and thinks about how easy it would be to kiss him.

Stiles is looking down into his cup of ice cream, scraping the side to get some sort of candy on his spoon, and so he doesn't notice the way Danny's looking at him. Even if he had, Danny doesn't think that Stiles would get it. That's one of the reasons Danny doesn't reach over and angle Stiles's chin towards him. He also thinks that after the kiss, and there would be one, Stiles would kiss him back, he's sure of that, but after it, he thinks Stiles still wouldn't understand.

He thinks Stiles would assume that Danny was just thinking about Jungle and how he hasn't been in a while, that Danny was wanting and Stiles was there. Danny doesn't think Stiles would realize that Danny wants _him_. Danny doesn't think that thought would even cross Stiles's mind. And so Danny doesn't kiss him because he doesn't think Stiles would understand, but also because he's not sure if he understands quite yet, and he doesn't want to promise something while sitting here on the hood of his car, touching under this stupid light, with both their mouths sticky with sweet ice cream—he doesn't want to give Stiles something Danny is unsure of.

"Haven't I already?" Danny asks, and Stiles glances over at him, spoon halfway to his mouth. "That first time, with the alphas? Didn't we almost die?"

"Oh," Stiles sticks his spoon in his mouth and waves both his hands around, keeping his spoon in place with his lips. It's obscene, even more so for the fact that Danny wouldn't have thought anything of it a month ago. "That wasn't almost dying. That was like, mildly threatened. You'll know almost dying."

Danny nods, digs back into his Blizzard so he doesn't have to look at Stiles anymore. "Do you ever regret it?"

Stiles leans down and sets his cup on the ground, then falls back so he's stretched on the hood, knuckles rapping against the outside of the windshield, t-shirt rucking up a little so Danny can see a tiny centimeter of skin and the elastic top of his boxers. Danny pushes himself back to lie beside him, listening to the beat of Stiles's restlessness. "I try not to think about it much," he finally says. "I guess I regret leading Scott into the woods the night he got bitten. I regret Scott becoming one, because he never wanted it, and he never would have wanted it. I like—I don't like the near-death, but I like what it's brought me." He laughs, a little sardonically, and Danny feels a little tense, like he's suddenly somewhere he doesn't think he wants to be. "I guess you know that I never really had friends other than Scott. I like that I do now. I like that I have a lot of people who would die for me, people I would die for. I don't regret that."

"You're good," Danny tells him, after the silence has stretched so long it's bound to snap, "you're really good at taking care of things. At knowing things. I'm impressed by how you do it all."

"It's just what I do. But thanks." Stiles keeps his hands moving, drumming against the hood. "The worst part is the lying."

Danny can't keep himself from saying, "You're really good at that, too."

Stiles laughs again, the sound abrupt. "God, a year ago you'd have been laughed out of town for saying that. I can't believe how easy it is now. Not like I tell good lies, just like—it's more natural to lie than to tell the truth. When I was telling you about all of this, I had to keep stopping myself from sticking stuff in that didn't happen, or leaving stuff out—it was really hard to just tell you the truth straight out. I never expected that when I got involved with all of this."

Danny hums in acknowledgment. They're silent a little while longer, and then he asks, "What did you expect?"

Stiles shrugs, Danny can hear his t-shirt brushing against the glass beneath his shoulders. "Staying alive, keeping Scott alive. Always being Robin." He says it like a joke.

"Erica calls you Batman." He'd noticed it that night, when they were saying goodbye outside of Derek's. Had thought it sort of cute and sort of odd, but in a nice way. Which is the way he's starting to think about everything to do with Stiles.

"Erica's the best." Stiles sighs, sitting up, limbs flailing as he regains purchase on the car. He turns to look down at Danny, face wide open and excited. "Hey, Derek was great tonight, with the deferring to Erica thing, wasn't he? The pack might not need to break up."

Danny doesn't want to sit up yet. "You thought that might be a possibility?"

"Well, yeah. Two alphas? Derek's already got to deal with Scott not really being 'his,' and then there's Peter—he doesn't need another member of the pack questioning his authority. But if they can do co-alpha-ship, or whatever, that'd be great. Derek seems to want to. I bet Erica'll go along with it." Stiles turns back around, head tilting to the side as he looks at the glass windows at the front of the Dairy Queen.

"Stiles," Danny looks at Stiles's back, his shoulders, the angle of his neck, "did you ever want the bite?"

Stiles's back tenses. Even if Danny hadn't been studying it so intently he thinks he would have noticed. "Nah." His pause is too long for the nonchalance that word carries. "I like having an exit strategy. That's a little too permanent for me." He turns his neck so quickly it cracks. Danny winces, but Stiles doesn't even seem to notice. "Why, are you thinking about it?"

"I've only known for like three weeks, dude, I'm definitely not thinking about it."

"Okay. But in a few months, a year, do you think you would?"

Danny shrugs, completely unsure. The thought is foreign, but he doesn't know if that's because it's new, or because he definitely would never want to be a werewolf.

"If you do start, talk to Scott."

"Why? Because he'll talk me out of it?"

Stiles makes a noncommittal humming noise.

"What," Danny pushes against the car, sitting up so his face is inches from Stiles's, suddenly curious, "why would you care if I became a wolf?"

"It's not just," Stiles holds his hands up, makes them into claws, bares his teeth, "physical. It's all of you. It's a whole-person change. And yeah, basically you're the same. But there are things you get with the bite, instincts you're given, and they're not you, they're the wolf, and I don't—you're good, Danny. You're just—change isn't always for the better."

Danny stares at his shoes, where they hang off the car. The words sound almost panicked, but they warm him. It's crazy, the fact that Stiles not wanting him to change makes him feel so secure. "Hey, don't worry." He kicks his foot against Stiles's. "I said I'm not thinking about it. And I promise if I ever do, I'll talk to Scott." He holds out his pinky, and Stiles looks at it a moment before chuckling and linking his little finger with Danny's.

"A lot classier than a spit handshake."

"Just as binding, though."

Stiles takes Danny's Blizzard cup from where he's set it between them and attempts to lob it into the trashcan at the end of the row of cars. It lands in a spiral of melted vanilla a few feet short, and Danny shakes his head, hopping from the hood and picking up Stiles's cup from the ground on the way to pick up his own.

Stiles grins at him when he returns. "Never said I was a basketball star." Danny laughs and reaches out, unthinkingly wiping his sticky vanilla-ice-cream fingers on the front of Stiles's t-shirt. Stiles glances down at his hand and then up at his face, cheeks suddenly flushed, and Danny feels an answer blush running up his neck.

"Ass," Danny mutters, breaking the awkward moment by shoving the offending hand against Stiles's shoulder.

Stiles laughs, nervous, high, then rushes, "I should probably get home. My dad is supposed to be off his shift at three, I wouldn't want to risk getting grounded as an encore to my prior grounding."

"Sure." Danny unlocks the doors, waiting until Stiles is sitting inside before sliding in himself. Stiles lifts his feet to press against the dashboard. Anyone else would be abandoned at Dairy Queen for that move. Danny just reaches over and shoves Stiles's feet down. He puts them back up as they're turning out of the lot, and Danny doesn't react at all.

:::

Julia is sitting on his bed when he gets home that night, his laptop open on the comforter beside her.

"Your Facebook is woefully lacking in juicy gossip these days," she informs him as he drops his keys and wallet on his desk.

"Sorry to disappoint." The current juicy gossip of his life is enough for a soap opera, but it's definitely not something he'll be sharing with his little sister. She's going to stay way the hell out of all of it.

He sits down on the end of his bed and tugs off his shoes. Julia kicks her bare foot against his leg.

"No, seriously, what have you been up to? You haven't been tagged in any scandalous photos, no one's posting on your timeline congratulating you on older conquests made at Jungle, and everyone's been asking me where you are whenever I go out."

"You're not supposed to go out." Danny shoots her a glare. "Seriously, you're like twelve. No boys, no girls, no alcohol for another ten years at least."

"Too late, bro. But I'm really tired of having all of my conversations start with questions about you. I shouldn't have to be your babysitter. For one thing, you're older. For another, it's not like you're my ticket in to these parties."

"Who _is_ your ticket in?" Because Danny would really like to talk to whoever the hell has allowed his sister into his social scene. Talk politely, with minimal fists involved.

"Myself," Julia declares, waving a hand at her face, which is made-up to Lydia-like levels of perfection. Danny snorts. "Well, okay, originally Britta—senior, varsity volleyball?—invited me. But I have held my own. Except you had to go and be all mysteriously missing since summer started, so now you're like all anyone talks about." She tugs at a few dark strands of hair that have escaped the pile on top of her head. "Well, you and Jackson and Lydia, obviously. Do you have any insights for me?" She reaches into the pocket of her shorts, pulling out her cellphone, and Danny feels suddenly on edge.

"Why does it matter?" he asks, shifting at the end of his bed.

"Because," the screen of Julia's phone lights up, "I got a text from Ian tonight, asking me why you were hanging out with Stilinski at Dairy Queen when there was a wicked rager going on at Ryan's house."

The truth is, this shouldn't bother Danny. Stiles, he's coming to find, is way more fun to hang around than at least eighty percent of the people who frequent summer's repetitive house parties. Also, near-death-by-werewolf is way more important than perfecting his game of beer pong—which is pretty damn near perfect, anyway. It's not that he doesn't miss the loose easiness of drinking warm beer in a room with a good portion of his high school class, because a part of him does miss that, a little bit, but the supernatural shit feels heavy and significant, something he needs to be a part of. It shouldn't require that he defend his friends to _anyone_, let alone Julia.

"What'd you tell him?" he asks her, instead of saying any of this.

"That I am not your keeper."

Danny nods. "And what'd he say?"

"Oh, that's not all I told him. I told him that if you wanted to expand your social circle, then that was entirely your business. I told him that the way he has treated Stiles in the past is despicable. I told him that he had better never fail a history class, because Stilinski will be the first person they ask to tutor him, and if he thinks that he will pass on the opportunity to torture him back, then he is dead wrong."

Danny doesn't try to fight the grin that spreads across his face at that. "And what'd he say?" he repeats.

Julia waves a hand. "Something rude, it's fine. He's an asshole."

Danny lets all of that sink in. "Thanks, Jules."

"Hey, what're sisters for?"

"Usually? To make my life miserable."

She hops off his bed, jostling his computer dangerously near the edge with the movement. "That's coming, don't worry. I'm still curious about him. He's not exactly your type."

"He's an asshole a lot of the time," Danny points out, "he's actually exactly my type."

Julia's answering grin is gleeful. "You do like him! You want to kiss him and ask him to prom and have little adopted babies with him!"

"Oh, get out." Danny chucks a pillow at her. It hits her in the shoulders as she leaves, and he's surprised at how weird it is to not have the initial reaction to flying projectiles be instant werewolf-borne catching skills.

He dreams about Stiles that night, and it's innocent, something weird about being stuck in a Nordstrom's with him while werewolves throw collared shirts around, but when he wakes up to a splash of cold water across his face he feels just as shaken as he would have if he had had been dreaming of Stiles naked and in his bed.

Julia's standing over him, a water glass tipped on its side in her hand. He reaches up and tries to catch the dribble of water in his palms. Julia smirks. "Stilinski is downstairs."

"What?" Danny waves his hand in the air and attempts to hit her, but meets her hand where it holds out his cellphone instead.

"Dead," she tells him. "Your phone is, I mean. He says you said you were going running this morning, but that you didn't show up and didn't answer your phone. He didn't say that he was worried, but it was implied." She leans in close over him, water glass tilted at a dangerous angle again, and hisses, "It is totally true love."

"I hate you." Danny drops his traitorous phone on the floor and rolls out of bed. "Tell Stiles I'll be down in a minute."

"Will do." She practically skips from his room, and he calls after her, "Don't you dare say anything embarrassing to him."

Stiles is sitting on his couch when Danny comes down, hands loose between his knees, his toe tapping out an offbeat rhythm against the carpet. Julia leans against the wall by the TV, watching Stiles but not saying anything. It is among the strangest scenes that Danny has ever walked in on.

"Hey, guess what," Stiles says, as soon as he notices Danny, "I'm not grounded anymore."

"Congratulations, that'll change so much about your everyday life." Danny shoots Julia a glare as he speaks, and she holds up her hands.

"You said not to say anything embarrassing. I couldn't think of anything else to say. So, silence."

Stiles stands, shaking his head. "I was thinking you were trying to kill me with your mind."

"Sorry, no superhero powers here." She grins. It's terrifying. Danny is seriously starting to be afraid of his little sister. "It was good meeting you, Stiles. Next time you decide to break curfew with my brother, can you give us a little something more to gossip about than what flavor of ice cream you both had?"

Stiles turns red. It would be hilarious if Danny's entire consciousness wasn't focused on wanting to kill Julia.

He reaches for Stiles's wrist and drags him toward the door. "We're going running now. If you never talk again I'll buy you Starbucks every day for the rest of the summer."

"Tempting, Daniel, but I cannot be bought that easily," she calls after them.

"Your sister is scary," Stiles tells him, as they stop at the end of the walkway to do some quick stretches.

"I think she's been taking lessons from Lydia. It's literally the worst thing that could have happened in my life."

Stiles reaches his arms behind his head, pulling his shoulders back. "And that is saying something, considering your recent supernatural-related adventures."

"Right?"

They start off on their run, Danny leading the way because the streets in this part of town are more unfamiliar to Stiles, allowing the fast pace they've set to prevent conversation for a while. Danny is pretty sure that what Julia had said about gossip is still sticking in Stiles's head the way it is in his, and he's also pretty sure that Stiles wants to discuss it about as much as he does, which is to say not really at all.

After the silence has stretched so long between them that even Danny is starting to feel uncomfortable with it, he asks, "What's on the agenda for your first day of freedom?"

Stiles shakes his head, taking a few more breaths before responding. "I didn't really have any plans."

"Not going to go sit out in front of the sheriff's office and wave at everyone who passes you?"

"Definitely not." Stiles breathes out a laugh. "My dad would probably be confused enough by that to sit me down and a have a talk, which is something I'm decidedly not interested in participating in."

Danny nods. "Want to stay at my place after the run, then?"

"Yeah, sure." Stiles is grinning, Danny can hear it in his voice.

It becomes a thing. They go for runs, take hurried showers, and then hang out at whichever house they started out at until the afternoon, sometimes early evening. After a week Danny's got clothes in both his room and Stiles's, and one of Stiles's sports bag is kicked behind his bedroom door. He really only notices it when the door is shut, but Julia gives him a narrow-eyed look the first time she sees it.

"He's basically moved in," she informs him. "You should probably just make it official. Even Dad's starting to ask me about him. Although I don't know why the entire world thinks that I have the answers to all questions regarding your private life. Like, seriously, why will they not ask you?"

"Because I'll never tell them what they want to hear, and that's all you ever tell people. Aside from me."

"Oh, come on. I'm telling you right now: Stiles Stilinski wants you badly. I have it on good authority. And that is definitely what you want to hear."

Danny twists around in his chair, raises an eyebrow. "Who'd you hear that from?"

Julia shrugs. "Doesn't matter, it's totally true."

Danny drops his head to his desk and shakes it. Julia makes a considering noise behind him.

"You really like him, don't you?" Her tone is softer, more like it used to be, before she hit high school and painstakingly learned deflection and sarcasm.

Danny nods his head, feeling the spiral binding of a notebook bump against the skin of his forehead.

"And you're, what? Afraid he doesn't like you back? Because, seriously, Danny, you cannot be that blind."

"He likes me back. I know that."

"So? You have a problem, what is it?"

"There's a lot going on. In Stiles's life, in mine." At least, he realizes, lifting his head a little, he and Stiles are no longer in entirely separate circles. He doesn't really care what people like Ian and Britta and all of the others his sister's been hanging out with this summer think. He and Stiles have friends in common, and they're all tied together by something pretty unshakeable—at least he knows he would never need to explain Stiles to people who matter. Everyone who matters realized that Stiles was important even before Danny did. "I don't want to complicate things."

"Daniel." He looks at Julia. Her dark eyes are narrowed at him, her arms crossed, her lower-lip sticking out a little. "You are in high school. You are a teenager. Life is meant to be complicated right now. This is when you start figuring stuff out."

Danny bites on his right index finger to stop the hysterical laughter that bursts up at that. Life isn't meant to be complicated the way his life is, he doesn't think. Julia raises her eyebrows. "Seriously? Danny, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing, it's just—Stiles hasn't done this before."

"So? Just don't be an ass to him. It is not that hard."

What if it is, though? What if Stiles pisses him off—because Stiles can, because Stiles does, because sometimes he is an obnoxious little bastard—and what if Danny reverts to treating him the way he did before the start of this summer? He knows Stiles well enough to know that that would hurt him, even if he didn't make it obvious. And what if—and this is likely, too, weirdly likely—what if Stiles chooses the wolves over him? What if he decides Danny isn't _in_ it enough, what if he decides Danny shouldn't be in it? Will he just abandon him—temporarily or otherwise?

"What if it is, though?" he asks Julia, because he has to know.

"Hard to not be an ass?" Julia cocks her head at him. "You're usually not, you know. Most people like you because you're nice."

"I'm nice compared to Jackson," Danny corrects.

"Don't," she holds up a palm, a scribble of pen blurred across it, a phone number, he imagines, and that makes him feel dead old, "don't even start with that. You are good, and nice, and kind, most of the time."

Danny looks at her for a long moment. She shifts from one foot to the other, sticks her hands in her pockets. She's still little, he reminds himself. She's still his younger sister. She doesn't know everything. But she might be right about this, maybe, because most of the time when he's with Stiles he just wants to figure him out, and when he figures something out and is disappointed by it—by the fact that Stiles's derision for Jackson hides nothing more than more derision—Danny doesn't want anything more than to find something _else _out about Stiles, something that he likes. And he always does. He'll be pissed or disappointed one second, and then next he'll be impressed or happy or relieved, because Stiles pisses him off sometimes but he never stays that way.

"So what do you think I should do?" Danny asks Julia.

"Kiss him, is my suggestion. Preferably before you get all sweaty from your run, or after you shower—unless you're into that?" Julia waves her hands around, turning on her toe in his doorway. "You know what, I really don't want to know. Please just, don't ever say anything to me about this ever again. Go get him, leave me out of it, etcetera etcetera."

"You're all right, Julia."

She's already down the hall, but he's pretty sure she hears him.

:::

Scott sends out a mass text that night, declaring a pack meeting at his place. Stiles picks Danny up, even though it's not at all on his way, and he sits in the driver's seat, left hand tense on the steering wheel, resting his right hand against his lips during the long stretches that he doesn't need to shift, chewing at his fingertips. Danny tries not to notice any of this, because it makes his stomach twist.

"Dude, what's going on? You're acting weird," he finally asks, because he hasn't seen Stiles this nervous in ages.

"I don't know, I don't know, sorry, seriously."

"What?" Danny turns in his seat, undoing his seatbelt, knowing that if Stiles were at all himself he'd be upset by the undoing of the seat belt, because he is still a cop's kid, murder and werewolves aside, but Stiles doesn't yell at him because he's staring straight ahead, barely paying attention to Danny, and that's not normal.

"Scott's selling this like a pack meeting, but it's just a cookout, and his mom's gonna be there, and he invited everyone, and it's just—damn," Stiles slams his palms against the steering wheel and lets out a tense laugh, "he's _normalizing_ it."

Danny ducks his chin. "Normalizing?" he repeats.

"Yes. Normalizing." Stiles lets his foot off the gas a little, Danny can feel it in the way the Jeep slows as they take a corner. "We'll get there, and Mrs. McCall and Isaac and probably Derek will be grilling steaks, and Scott will be trying to get Erica to help him chop vegetables, and Boyd and Allison will be doing things like, like setting the table and washing dishes, and Lydia and Jackson will be directing things, and it will be—it will be normal, except for how everyone's a werewolf and Mrs. McCall _knows_."

Danny reaches a hesitant hand out to touch Stiles's shoulder. Stiles glances at him, gaze sharp and quick, and then he turns his eyes back to the road and Danny drops his hand, feeling awkward.

"What?" Stiles waits for the silence to grow tight before he asks. "What was that look for?"

Danny thinks Stiles probably thought he looked pitying. It's probably true. "Scott's just trying to make this into a real friendship. Not just pack, not just life or death. He wants it to be something better, something that's good for everyone, that works for everyone." Except Peter, Danny reminds himself, because occasionally he needs to remind himself that there is an undead werewolf in this equation, one he hasn't met yet. "That's not the problem. You shouldn't have a problem with Scott wanting all of you, all of us, to be friends. You really don't, do you?"

He doesn't expect Stiles to respond, and so is neither surprised nor disappointed by Stiles's continued unnatural silence. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, though, Danny watches as his fingers whiten around the black cover.

"But Scott's mom is going to be there." Stiles shakes his head as Danny pauses, and then he flicks on his signal and the Jeep rolls to a stop on the shoulder. Late afternoon sunlight falls through the leaves of the trees that hang over the road, drawing webbed shadows on Stiles's hands.

"No one's ever told me I can't tell my dad." He says the words fast, like they're meaningless, unimportant. Like he's said them to himself so much they don't matter anymore.

"So why don't you?"

Stiles shakes his head, still looking out the windshield, not at Danny. "I don't trust him."

Danny blinks. He had not been expecting that.

"No, that's not it, really." Stiles is back to talking fast, back to talking like he's got so many words they won't fit in his mouth. "I don't trust him to trust me enough to understand that I actually know what I'm doing for once. You know? This is, this is me and Scott, me and Derek, me and you. This is all of us. It's not about whether or not the adults approve, no one needs to approve, because we do what we need to to take care of whatever shit's going down. And," he drums his palms flat against the steering wheel, high-energy slaps that leave the car humming, "you said I'm good at this. You meant that, right? You meant that I'm actually _good_ at taking care of things."

"You're superb." Danny thinks that word should come out sarcastic. He thinks he should be embarrassed when it doesn't. He isn't.

"So I won't tell my dad for selfish reasons. Even though it might help in his job. Even though it _might_ help him be safer just as much as it might make things more dangerous for him. I don't want to lose this."

"That makes sense." Danny looks out the side window instead of looking at Stiles. "And, you know, even if you're not doing it for necessarily the right reasons, it still might be the right thing."

"Right," Stiles doesn't sound like he agrees, but Danny won't push it. Stiles drops his hand to the gearshift, and Danny watches as he pulls them back onto the road. He can't think of much but Stiles's hands and the way he touches everything, like it's not real until he's held it.

"Do you want to skip tonight?" he asks, instead of telling Stiles that he wants his hands on him, instead of telling Stiles that he thinks he's ready, instead of asking Stiles whether he'd understand if Danny kissed him now, whether he'd know that he means it.

"Yeah," Stiles says, but he's still driving towards Scott's.

"Seriously, Stiles. We don't need to go. You text Scott, I'll text Jackson, say we can't make it. We don't need to explain ourselves. We don't _need_ to do anything."

Stiles glances at him. "I want to take you up on that. Really badly, I do. But Scott—I can't do that to him right now."

"Why not now?" Danny asks. They're on Scott's road. He's pretty sure they'll be within hearing distance of the wolves soon, although the rumbling of Stiles's Jeep will probably block much of what they're saying.

Stiles shrugs, a full-body movement. "Something's off. He put a lot of effort into planning this, I'm not gonna be the one to fuck it up." He grins at Danny, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Danny thinks about what Jackson said about jealousy as he and Stiles get out of the Jeep and go around to the back of the Scott's house, where, just like Stiles guessed, Isaac and Derek and Mrs. McCall are standing over a grill, arguing about the best way to cook steak. It's surreal.

The whole night is actually surreal, and what Stiles had been saying about Scott wanting to make everything normal makes a lot more sense. _Normal_ seems a lot stranger after he's watched Derek pick corn out from between his front teeth with a finger, after he's heard Isaac and Jackson get into a serious argument over whether it's worse to overcook or undercook your meat, after Lydia and Allison and Mrs. McCall gang up on him and Jackson and get them to wash the dishes. The only technically abnormal thing about the whole night (even if the whole thing _feels_ really fucking abnormal, if Danny's honest about it) is the way Scott and Stiles are not speaking to each other.

Mrs. McCall spends a good five minutes quizzing Stiles on where he's been all summer, Stiles going evasive and talking into his plate, mumbling about groundings and running, and Scott sinks further and further into his chair the more they talk. They nod at each other when they both reach for the bowl of macaroni salad at once, neither of them taking it, the awkwardness stretching until Erica reaches in and takes some for herself, passing the bowl to Stiles when she's done, who gives it to Derek, who gives it to Scott. Lydia says something to Stiles about how she's excited to see how Danny and he do in cross country, and Scott shoots her a look that seems almost challenging. The whole thing feels like a mess. Danny wants to shake both of them until they realize that whatever they're doing is really childish. Like middle school, except he, like everyone else in Beacon Hills, knows that Scott and Stiles never fought in middle school.

Jackson goes silent while he and Danny are at the sink, taking the rinsed glasses Danny hands him and placing them so carefully in the top rack of the dishwasher that they don't make any noise. Danny nudges him with his shoulder, and Jackson jerks his head toward the side, toward the screen door. If Danny narrows his eyes, he can just make out the shapes of Scott and Stiles, standing at the very edge of the dim light thrown across the back deck from the kitchen.

Danny raises his eyebrows at Jackson, who nods, like that's an answer, and reaches for the next glass.

When Scott and Stiles come back inside, they're both shuffling their feet a little, and Scott refuses to look at either Danny or Jackson. Stiles glances at Danny fast and then away, cheeks red, and Danny has no idea what's going on, but Scott and Stiles are talking to each other normally again, so that, at least, is an improvement.

Derek leaves first, and soon after Erica and Boyd trail out, Erica gripping onto Boyd's hand. Allison leaves, and then Jackson and Lydia share a significant look and get up. "Come on," Lydia says to Danny.

But Stiles reaches out and grabs onto Danny's wrist. "No, I'm taking him home."

"It's on our way," Lydia points out.

"It was for you to bring him, too," Stiles replies.

Jackson nods at Stiles, a strange and polite bow of his head, and wraps an arm around Lydia's waist. "See you losers later." He doesn't specify that Danny isn't a loser, which makes Danny feel good, for some reason. Like he's been lumped with Stiles (and Scott and Isaac, but whatever) and that's a good thing.

Stiles stands after the lights from Jackson's Porsche sweep across the windows. "I'll text you tomorrow," he tells Scott, and Scott chucks a pillow after them, which is weird but, finally, not unusual.

Stiles doesn't say anything until they're at the stop sign at the end of Scott's road. "My dad's working tonight," he says, and it means something, the way he says it. "Want to stay over?"

"Yeah." There's not really much to say, after that, and Stiles takes the few streets between his house and Scott's as Danny tugs his phone out of his pocket and texts his mom to let her know he's staying at a friend's house. He says it just like that. She texts him back, a simple _Be safe_, and he's sure he has reasons to resent his parents, but he legitimately can't think of any at the moment.

They don't talk at all as they get out of the Jeep and Stiles unlocks his door, and they head through the house to Stiles's bedroom. They don't say anything in the doorway to Stiles's room, or as Danny leans against the wall by the desk and Stiles opens dresser drawers noisily.

Danny thinks about what Julia said earlier. "Did Scott think I was being an ass to you?"

Stiles starts, jerking around from his drawers with a t-shirt in one hand and a pair of socks in the other. "No?" Danny raises his eyebrows. "Well, sort of. He said I didn't understand what was going on. He said that _if_ I didn't understand what was going on then I should probably start hanging out with him again. He said a lot of stuff. I think he was," Stiles rolls his lip between his teeth, "jealous? Which is dumb, because he picked Isaac first."

Danny wants to address that last part, but he wants to address the first part more. "_Do_ you understand what's going on?" he asks, and Stiles releases his lip, his mouth falling open a little.

"Yeah," Stiles's voice is rough. He's never sounded that way before, and it hits Danny right in the gut.

When they kiss, because it takes only tiny seconds for Danny to get from Stiles's desk to Stiles's place by the dresser, when they kiss, it's hot and messy, lips and teeth and tongue. It's loud, because Stiles moans like he's got something crazy in him. Danny wants his hands everywhere, but he wants Stiles's hands everywhere more, and they're just settled on the small of his back, like he's something precious, not to be undone yet, and he bites at Stiles's lower lip because he _can_.

They don't do much that first night. Or, they do a lot of kissing. They push each other into Stiles's bed and web around each other. Danny doesn't let his hands drift under Stiles's shirt, because Stiles's hands stay firmly on cotton, not even drifting over denim. He's not sure what it is that's setting up boundaries for them—he trusts Stiles enough to want him to touch every bit of him. He wants Stiles everywhere.

But while Stiles's hands are hesitant, his mouth is open and wanting and wet, and Danny pushes into that, takes everything he can from Stiles's lips, and when they finally drift into a tired and hazy tangle, Stiles's mouth finds a place on Danny's neck and stays there. And so the slowness of his hands, the softness with which he touches the hem and collar of Danny's t-shirt, that seeming reluctance is completely belied by the urgency of his mouth. Danny hasn't done this in a long time, this learning thing, this kissing thing. He hasn't met someone outside of Jungle in so long that he's forgotten if he ever even knew the way this sort of thing feels. He knows, now, that Stiles isn't just looking for sex, and neither is he, and that, somehow, has completely undone everything Danny thought he knew about relationships, about love and lust.

His hand is tucked beneath Stiles's shirt when he wakes up, hot against the smoothness of Stiles's back, going there in their sleep when he respected boundaries awake, but Stiles doesn't seem to care. They roll away from each other, limbs tight and uncoordinated, and Stiles rubs at the back of his neck and Danny scrubs a little at the spot of dried spit on his throat, and then Stiles says, "Run?" and Danny nods, says, "Then breakfast?" and everything is back to normal, except it's all a little better.

Danny is surprised to come home after the run and the breakfast and a little more soft maple syrupy kissing to find his room empty. He had thought that Julia would be sitting on his bed, ready to taunt him about spending the night at Stiles's, because of course she'd have assumed that's where he was.

But she's not there. The house is empty, both his parents off at work, Julia somewhere, and he finds himself with a lot of time to overthink.

He's into round two of _what if it's just a friends with benefits thing would that be bad should it be something more or should we start off there or should I call Stiles or how much, really, has changed_, when Lydia texts him.

_How was your night last night? _she asks,and he turns bright red without anyone there to see him blush, turns bright red even though nothing happened except kissing, turns bright red even though he is not the blushing type, except, apparently, where Stiles is concerned. He got his first kiss at fourteen from a seventeen year old at a lacrosse party he and Jackson snuck into, a senior who had no idea that he was just an incoming freshman. He got his first hand job that same year, first blowjob the year after, first time with someone inside him when he was still fifteen, just barely, after a really terrible series of tequila shots and poor life choices, from a man who kissed his shoulders when he came and made it—if not good, if not right, if not what Danny would have wanted when sober—then all right, he made it okay.

Danny is not a blusher, and he's blushing at a fairly innocent question with a mostly innocent answer. There's more insinuated in his silence than there will be when he texts back, _Good. We kissed. A lot. _so he lets the question hang unanswered while his blush fades.

When he finally does respond to Lydia, she makes him wait a good fifteen minutes for a reaction, and then she sends a _Finally. The sexual tension was literally painful to witness_, and Danny turns his phone off so he can go back to freaking out about what this means in peace.

It occurs to him sometime in the mid-afternoon that Stiles may be having just as much of a crisis as he is. Possibly more of one, considering that Danny is fairly certain Stiles has never done anything before. He's actually pretty sure Stiles believed that he was straight up until at least their freshman year, and so this may be even more confusing for him.

He turns his phone back on and finds a few missed texts from Jackson, congratulating him and then begging him not to give any details, one from Derek saying that they're having a pack meeting (_an actual one, not a cookout_) in two nights, and one from Stiles, just saying, _Text me when you get the chance. _

He calls instead.

"What's up?"

Stiles's intake of breath is enough to bring the night before back in full force, and Danny wishes he'd never left Stiles's house that afternoon.

"So I've been thinking," Stiles says, after a few seconds of them breathing into each other's ears, "and I know it's probably not cool to admit that or whatever but you know me, I think, and you also know that this is, like, super new territory for me. We're talking uncharted, so."

"Stiles," Danny tries to interrupt, but Stiles's voice keeps boiling.

"Are we actually doing something here? I mean, like, obviously we _did _something, but are we going to continue doing…that? I know I told you that I understood what was going on and I did, I sort of did, I did enough to know that last night was in the cards, but is it still in them?"

Danny thinks about asking what Stiles wants. But he's not sure if Stiles will tell him, and he's not sure if he'll believe him if he does. So he says, "I want it to be."

"You do?" Stiles's voice is tentative.

"Do you?" Danny is impatient, suddenly, and he knows that that's unfair. But he had left Stiles's house feeling confident, and something in the last six hours has thrown both he and Stiles into mirroring pits of self-doubt, and that is really unacceptable. And he knows it's because this is so new, so unexpected—well, not recently. Recently, he'd expected it. But the newness is making it all seem shaky, when he and Stiles, well, they're really not all that shaky at all.

"Well, yeah. Obviously."

"What do you mean, obviously?" Danny sits still, listens to Stiles breathe on the other end, thinks about all the ways Stiles could answer that question.

"Danny, I've been falling over you all summer. I will take almost whatever you want to give me."

"Almost?" Danny fixes on that word. "Say we say we're dating. Is that something you'll take?"

It sounds like Stiles's lungs empty in one breath. "That," he says, "that I will definitely take. No question."

"All right, then."

"All right," Stiles agrees.

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! I love hearing what people think.


	2. Part Two

**A/N:** I know I said there was going to be only one more part but turns out this is going to be a three part story and honestly I don't know how to write anymore. Plots are hard. I hope you like this regardless.

part two

Kissing just after running is gross. They both smell like sweat and cut grass and dirt, and Danny has a tiny caterpillar stuck in his hair that Stiles catches with his fingers as he runs his hand against Danny's scalp, lips eager even as he snatches his hand back and scrubs caterpillar juice on Danny's already nasty t-shirt.

Gross.

"We could shower," Danny suggests, and Stiles goes bright red. Danny coughs. "I meant, separately? Like usual."

"Oh." Stiles rubs his foot against the tile of his kitchen and stares at his grass-stained sock a minute before saying, "Probably a good idea."

"Stiles," Danny begins, but Stiles just looks at him, eyes bright, cheeks still a little red, and Danny has no idea where he wants to say, so he just shrugs. "I'll go first?" Stiles nods, turns away and gets himself another glass of water.

Kissing just after showering is much better. Stiles's hair is wet and Danny's is still damp, and they both smell like Stiles's soap and shampoo. They're lying on Stiles's bed. Stiles is straddling Danny, hands wrapped around his sides as he leans down, like he's holding Danny together, and when Danny presses against Stiles's shirt the blue fabric darkens, sticks closely to his skin because Stiles threw on his clothes without fully drying off first. It is really absurd how much Danny wants all of this, over and over and forever.

"Stop thinking," Stiles says into his mouth, and then his hands skirt under the hem of Danny's t-shirt, fingers brush just barely against the skin above his jeans, and Danny presses up into him, shoulders lifting off the bed as he tries to get as close as possible to Stiles.

He doesn't leave until late that day, when the sun's all the way behind Stiles's house and his lips feel tender and Stiles looks flushed and wrecked, even though Danny never even got his shirt all the way off. It drives him crazy, thinking about how Stiles will look when he's all the way gone.

He distracts himself, thinking about it. He goes to Derek's the next night impatient to see Stiles, even though they ran in the morning and spent the early afternoon in Danny's backyard. Danny's barely thinking about the alphas and all the dangerous games he and his friends are playing—he's barely got room to think about that, because of the amount of thought Stiles's hands and mouth and body take up.

The Jeep's not there when he gets to Derek's. He considers waiting for Stiles before he goes inside, but Lydia taps on the glass of his window almost as soon as he pulls his key from the ignition. He climbs out a little warily, but she just cocks her head at him, standing on tiptoe a little to brush a kiss against his cheek.

"I hear you're happy," is all she says, taking his hand and leading him into Derek's already crowded apartment.

Scott jerks his head around when he walks in, and a tall man who Danny's never seen before, standing by the entrance to the kitchen, lets out a rough laugh. "Your pack is like singles night, Derek. Soon it'll only be you. Unless you've got someone in mind?"

Derek, coming out of the kitchen with his hands full of bags of chips and pretzels, growls. He nods at Danny, puts the food down and makes an abortive gesture across the space of the living room. "Danny, this is my uncle Peter. Peter, Danny."

Danny steels himself and says, "Hey," before sitting next to Scott on the couch. Scott bumps his shoulder, like everything's forgiven between them, and maybe it is. At least, it is in the face of undead werewolves.

There's something off about Peter. Danny hopes that he would have seen it even if he hadn't known the man's backstory. His eyes seem a little dazed, a little less focused than most people's. Like he's not entirely there.

"Where's Stiles?" Isaac reaches over Scott to snag a bag of chips from the table.

"Not sure," Danny answers. "I texted him to see if he wanted a ride, but he said he was all set."

Erica shifts and pulls out her phone, pressing the top so it lights up. "He's ten minutes late, can we start without him?"

"It's sort of," Derek begins, but then catches the expression on her face, her lip tucked between her teeth, her eyes wide as she watches him, "Yeah, I guess. We can catch him up."

"Did you and Isaac meet with the alphas?" Lydia is perched on the arm of the chair. Peter's behind her, watching them all from his position by the kitchen, and Jackson is leaning against the wall beside him, splitting his attention between the back of Lydia's head and shooting sideways looks at Peter. Danny can't bring himself to look away from Jackson. He hasn't seen him this tense in months, not since he was, by all credible accounts, a giant murderous lizard.

He's so focused on the strange tension between Jackson and Peter and Lydia—a tension which only Jackson seems fully aware of—that he almost misses Derek's response to Lydia's question.

"It wasn't very successful," Derek is saying when he tears his gaze away from Jackson. "They were not interested in negotiating."

"Are you sure it wasn't your method of negotiation that madethem disinterested?" Peter's voice is soft. It gets under Danny's skin, and, judging from the way his hands tighten into fists, it gets under Derek's, too.

"They barely let us speak, just said, 'Get out.'" Isaac leans forward, resting his chin in his hands. "We said no, of course, and the girl launched herself at us. We had to get out then, before it turned into a bloodbath."

"What's plan b, again?" Stiles speaks from the door, and although none of the wolves look surprised to see him, Peter does shift forward a little. Jackson lets out a low growl as soon as Stiles speaks, but it doesn't seem directed at him.

"We hadn't really come up with one," Allison admits. Erica's sitting on her hands, her head resting against Boyd's. She has her eyes shut.

"We probably should, then." Stiles doesn't move from the door. He falls back against the wall, crosses his arms, and stares across the room at Peter. "What're you doing here?"

"Stiles." Derek sounds tired.

"Derek wanted to know if I knew anything about alpha packs. I don't know much, but I imagine I know more than you. For all you're trying to turn your pack into one, apparently." He's staring at Erica, and she shrinks into Boyd like she can feel his gaze on her.

"Don't," Boyd growls.

Stiles waves his hands. "Yeah, fine. Great. Why couldn't you share your intel with Derek not on pack time? No one wants you here."

"Stiles," Derek repeats. There's even less force behind his name this time.

"I don't think," Peter leans forward, away from the wall, and Jackson shifts towards him, just a little, "that Derek likes spending time with me alone. Safety in numbers, you know." His mouth opens in a grin that shows off his canines, and Danny moves a little closer to Scott.

"You're not a threat," Stiles scoffs, and he sounds almost confident. "You're just an asshole. And a nuisance. If you don't have anything useful to tell us regarding alpha packs, why don't you get the fuck out?"

"I never said I didn't have anything useful. I just said I didn't know much."

Derek makes a low noise that vibrates through the room; he's put his whole body behind it. "What do you know?"

Peter blinks. "Calm down, kid. It's not that interesting. Just." He cocks his head, gaze still on Stiles. Danny has never felt tension like this, like any moment the air could snap and the wolves would be on each other. "It's relevant, I guess. They negotiate with humans."

"They negotiate with humans," Derek parrots. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means that if you'd been smart enough to send in two of your pets, the alphas would have talked to them. Not that it would necessarily have gone any better. But at least words would have been exchanged."

"How do you even know that? It seems pretty arbitrary." Allison moves forward from her place beside Isaac, twisting so she's facing Peter.

"It's not, though." Stiles has his head tilted up, examining Derek's ceiling. He's speaking slowly, for him, which is still about as fast as most people talk normally. "Because other werewolves are threats—alphas because of their strength, betas because these alphas probably think that every beta wants to be an alpha, and therefore wants to kill an alpha. Omegas don't have packs to negotiate for. Humans, though. If they come in empty handed, they can do nothing. If these alphas have trust issues, then humans speaking on behalf of a pack—yeah, that makes sense."

"What good could you do, though?" Jackson spits. "Say you and Lydia walk into their campsite and start talking. What does that do?"

"We reach an agreement." Stiles waves a hand. "It'll be easy."

"And if they decide to bite you?" Derek asks.

"Scott fought Peter. So I fight them. If Lydia comes, she'd be fine. She's immune."

"And if they decide to kill you?"

"We stay alive," Lydia says. "It's really not that complicated. We should have done this from the start."

"Seems like it could be complicated," Jackson argues.

"We'll go tomorrow," Stiles says.

Peter makes a noise. "As admirable as your eagerness is, Stiles, I think you're forgetting to take something into account."

"And what is that?" Lydia twists all the way around on the arm of the chair, and Danny can't see her face, but her hair swings as she moves, catching the light. Even the line of her back looks dangerous.

"They only accept one negotiation. They won't be so easy to find, next time."

"If they only negotiate with humans, how does what Isaac and Derek did even count?"

"Sorry, I should have said, they only peaceably negotiate with humans."

"So we scent them out." Scott shrugs. "Not hard."

"You lost me for months." Erica's voice is soft. The room goes quiet for a few minutes, letting Erica's words settle.

Stiles breaks the silence. "They left, when they got you. Didn't they? They left but then they came back, so obviously they want something more. They won't let us lose them this time. It's different, this time."

"But is that good?" Erica asks, and no one has an answer.

They leave soon after, no one able to come up with a solution that won't result in bloodshed, no one wanting to stick around if Peter's there. And he stays until they start moving toward the parking lot, lingering in the open doorway to say something to Derek that makes all the wolves exchange glances.

Scott turns around when Peter leaves, grabs onto Erica's hand as she's about to climb into Boyd's truck, and pulls her back toward Derek's apartment. The others continue getting into their cars as if nothing's going on, so Danny follows Stiles to the Jeep, shooting occasional glances at the door, which Scott had shut behind him and Erica.

There's a good foot of space between him and Stiles, and Stiles is looking at his face, his eyebrows slightly, unconsciously, raised. The expression is unsure, like he's waiting on something.

Danny steps forward and rests his hands on Stiles's hips, half on his t-shirt over skin, half on the t-shirt over jeans, and leans in to press a light kiss against Stiles's barely parted lips. "What're you up to now?" Danny asks, when Stiles sighs out. He steps back an inch.

"My dad's home." Stiles rubs a hand against the back of his neck. Danny's hands are still on Stiles, and he presses his thumbs in, trying to make the moment stick. "I think," Stiles begins, then shifts forward and rests his forehead against Danny's. He stays silent for long enough that Danny thinks that might have been his cue to say something, but then Stiles continues, "I think I might try to talk to him."

"About?" Danny prompts after Stiles waits a few beats, as if expecting a reaction.

Stiles steps back and Danny's hands slip away. He tucks them empty in his back pockets, not looking away from Stiles's face, the wry expression he can make out in the light from the streetlights around them.

"You, I guess? If that's all right?"

Danny's family probably already knows about Stiles, probably supposed something was going on long before something actually was, because of Julia. He can't imagine sitting down and having that conversation with them, the one that starts off with "I'm seeing someone," and continues with, "His name is." He can't imagine the surprise that might be inherent in that conversation. He'd never had to do that, not really. His coming out to his family was much less of a revelation than an affirmation.

"Of course it's all right," is all Danny tells him. Then, because Stiles still doesn't look entirely satisfied, adds, "I want him to know."

"Okay, then." Stiles fumbles behind him for the door to the Jeep, and Danny reaches out, stops him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Do you want me to come?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, I want—I need to talk to him, just me. I'll call you when it's over?"

Danny nods, squeezes Stiles's shoulder and crosses to where he parked a little down the lot from Derek's apartment. He sits in the car until Stiles's headlights cut through his back window, and then reverses out of his parking spot.

He drives home without putting on any music, sitting in the silence of the car, the air conditioning blowing loud enough to block out the hiss of his tires over the road, and he thinks over the feeling of Peter's gaze on him, and the way Stiles had waited for him after, and the way Stiles had looked at him, before he said that he wanted him to tell his dad, like this thing—this actual thing that they have actually talked about—is still so fragile that it might go nowhere. He doesn't think about the alphas. He doesn't want to.

Julia is sitting in the living room when he gets home, watching a Lifetime movie and eating out of a Ben & Jerry's container.

Danny stops in the doorway. "Did you break up with somebody?"

Julia glances over her shoulder at him, spoon in her mouth, and shakes her head. She plucks the spoon out. "No, why?"

He shrugs, hesitating a moment before crossing the room and perching on the edge of the couch. "Ice cream, shitty TV movie, in your pajamas at ten at night?"

"I just felt like it." Julia waves the hand holding the ice cream container, indicating the it she means. A drop of condensation rolls from the cardboard bottom and lands on the couch, darkening the blue of the cushion. Danny presses his fingertip against it.

"So." Julia reaches over and mutes the TV. There's something dramatic going on onscreen, a teenage girl screaming in her bedroom, mascara running black down her cheeks. "I haven't seen you around the past couple of days. You took my advice, right?"

"When do I ever not take your advice?"

"So you and Stilinski are dating?" Julia prompts. "Or is it just a fuck buddies thing?"

"Julia." Danny's tone is warning, but warm, too, and Julia grins at him. "Language."

"A bit hypocritical of you, seeing as how you're the one who taught me that word."

And quite probably every other swear word in existence. It was one of Danny's weaker periods, and definitely not something he feels like discussing right now, when his parents could come into the room at any moment. He can hear the sound of TV coming down the hall from their bedroom. "We're dating," he answers, and her grin widens.

"Good for you." She reaches out, pats him on the shoulder, and unmutes the TV. He sits with her, cringing at the acting and Julia's reactions to it, occasionally checking his phone for Stiles's call.

It doesn't come until the end credits are rolling. He doesn't answer until he's taking the stairs two at a time, still feeling his sister's curious gaze on his back.

"Hey, how'd it go?" He shuts the door to his room and locks it just in case, falling on his bed as Stiles responds.

"Okay? I think? I mean, he was good about it. Said you're a nice kid. I think he was relieved I wasn't, like, bringing home Isaac or Derek." Danny snorts, and Stiles hums in acknowledgment. "Yeah, so that was good. He wasn't even that surprised, I don't think. Guess the fact that you've been around all summer was sort of a tip off."

"You're welcome," Danny says, knowing as he says it that it's not exactly the right response, and Stiles's silence confirms that. "Sorry. So what part left you not all right?" Because Stiles sounds hesitant, a little faulty, like he doesn't exactly trust his voice.

Stiles makes a noise like he's frustrated. "After I told him about the whole you thing, the whole bi thing, he asked if this was what I'd been hiding from him all year."

"Oh." Danny stares straight up at his ceiling. "What'd you say?" Because it would have been an easy out. Not an out for the future, maybe, not for all the secrets they will have, not for the lies still coming, but for the past, at least. And Danny knows Stiles wants one of those badly.

"I said it wasn't." Stiles sounds surprised. "I can't believe I said it wasn't."

Danny releases a breath. "What'd he say?"

"He got all sad again, asked me whether I was going to ever tell him what that was. I said he'd find out eventually."

"And he just let you go?"

"Yeah. Got up and patted me on the head and told me to go to bed."

"Jesus."

"I know. So, anyway, guess that's done. I should go. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"At seven," Danny promises before ending the call. He shuts his eyes, and hopes he never has to lie to his parents the way Stiles has his dad.

Except that he supposes he is, just by knowing about all of this. He guesses his lies aren't as noticeable because he hasn't gotten his hands dirty. Yet. He wonders when he will. He thinks they'll notice, when he comes home with scratches down his sides and a split lip.

There's no possibility that that won't happen. He's in this. He'll end up bloody, one way or another.

:::

Stiles's dad is on night shift when Stiles calls Danny and says without preamble, "We're going to Jungle."

"We are not going to Jungle."

"Come on, Danny. I've never been there on not-pack-duty. I think I'd like it."

"I think you would, too. Maybe when we go through our mid-relationship breakup because you can't believe you tied yourself down to me, then you can go to Jungle. I'm not really interested in watching 25 year-old men try to grind on you."

Stiles doesn't say anything for a minute, and Danny realizes that the thing about the breakup, that may not have seemed as much of a joke to Stiles as he had intended it. But then Stiles says, "Please, they'll be all over you, not me," and he sounds normal.

"Stiles." Danny presses his forehead against the glass of his bedroom window. "Trust me. They will be all over you."

Stiles makes a considering noise. "Fine. No Jungle. What do you want to do, then?"

"Dinner, movie? There's that new one with the guy from The Transporter in it. It looks horrible."

"Like, a date?"

"We are dating, aren't we? Why wouldn't we go on a date? Also, what would you have called going to Jungle?"

"Dancing? In a dark room? Where the only people we know are drag queens and a few college kids?"

"Are you trying to hide that you're seeing me, Stilinski?" Danny attempts a joking, werewolf-esque growl, but he thinks he's starting to see where Stiles is coming from, and it makes him feel sick.

"Obviously not. You're like the best person in this town."

"So you think that I'm trying to hide that I'm seeing you?"

Stiles doesn't say anything.

"Yeah, that's definitely not happening. We are going to go out to dinner at Lou's Diner and I know for a fact that the soccer team is going there to eat before a party at Liam's tonight, and they are going to see us together and I will kiss you when you have curly fries in your mouth if that is what it takes to convince you that I want this just as much as you do. And then we'll go see that terrible movie and watch people who do not actually exist get blown to bits and probably I will get so bored that I will need you to entertain me. And if you want, we can go to the party at Liam's after and get really wasted and hook up on his parents' really nice leather couch."

Stiles still doesn't say anything.

"Stiles, seriously, do you get what I'm saying?"

There's a strangled cough from the other end "Copy," Stiles says. "One hundred percent clear. All of that is a-okay with me. Except let's not go to Liam's."

"Okay, good. It's a date. Can you drive? I don't have the car tonight."

Stiles laughs, the sound worming into Danny's ear. "Yeah, I'll drive. Pick you up at six thirty?"

"See you then."

There are three shiny sports cars parked outside of Lou's when they get there, and Stiles pulls into the space beside an Audi, shaking his head.

"I would take my Jeep over one of these any day, but, damn, I'd love to drive one, just once. You've driven Jackson's Porsche, haven't you?"

"Once or twice. I was too scared about crashing it into something or getting a scratch or a bird shitting on it while I was in the driver's seat to really appreciate it, though."

Stiles laughs, stuffing his hands into his pockets as they approach the door. "We should gang up on Derek to let us drive the Camaro. Not that that's the same as the Porsche, but he'd probably eviscerate us only a little if we hurt it."

"We'd still be dead."

"But possibly still recognizable as ourselves!" Stiles grins at him, wide, and Danny holds the door open for him and follows him into the diner. The soccer team is at two tables pushed together, in direct line of the door, and Stiles heads toward a booth on the other side of the room, so they have to pass the team, but so most of them won't be able to see them while they're eating.

"Danny?" Ryan half stands up from the table, waving at him. "Hey, we haven't seen you in ages." And then the whole table is looking at them, and Danny can feel Stiles drawing himself up beside him, apparently unconsciously preparing to throw himself into a full-bodied deflective babble. Danny reaches out and hooks his finger in a belt loop on his jeans.

"Hey, man. Yeah, it's been sort of a crazy summer. What're you all up to?"

"Didn't you get the Facebook invite for Liam's party? His parents are in New York, he's been planning this for months."

"Aren't you coming? You must remember him talking about it during finals." Alec is looking between Stiles and Danny like he doesn't know for sure what he's seeing. The last time Danny had seen Alec, they'd been at a house party just after school ended, and Alec had been drunk, but not that drunk, and he'd kissed Danny until Danny's mouth burned. He steps closer to Stiles.

"I remember him mentioning it," Danny says. "I don't know if we'll make it, though."

"Well, if you want to," Ryan shrugs, "you're both welcome."

"To any party, really. We miss having you around. And Jackson, and Lydia. Where've they been?" Erin is dating Liam, and she's got the dubious reputation of being the biggest gossip at school. The thought of her actually missing any of them is laughable. She is definitely going to send a mass text about him and Stiles within two minutes of this conversation ending.

Danny shakes his head. "I haven't seen much of them this summer, either," and that's the total truth, if his definition of "much" is the amount of time he spends with Stiles.

"Huh," Erin sucks in her lower lip. "Well, if you see them, tell them that they need to make an appearance at at least one party before school starts again. It won't really be summer until they do."

"Will do," Stiles says, and everyone looks at him. "Tell Lydia and Jackson, I mean? Because you haven't seen them and we do? Sometimes," he adds, because everyone's faces are wide open and incredulous.

"Do that," Erin instructs, "and you be sure to come, too, Stiles. I think you could be fun."

Stiles laughs, an awkward, nervous sound. "I have it on good authority that I am. Anyway, we should let you get back," he waves a hand at their baskets of half-eaten burgers and scattered fries, "it was good seeing all of you."

"You too," Alec says for the group, his voice still a little questioning, but not unfriendly.

Danny releases Stiles's belt loop as he follows him to the empty booth near the back. "That wasn't too much like The Breakfast Club. Or Mean Girls. Maybe your friends aren't as awful as I thought."

"You were on the lacrosse team with some of them," Danny points out. "Did you hate them then?"

"We didn't really have much in common until the end. Benchwarmer," Stiles gestures at himself, "actual legit lacrosse player," he points at Danny. "But no, they weren't horrible." He glances at the plastic-covered menu and then says, considering, "But I was never hooking up with you before, either, so things can change. Also, Julia is going to have way more to gossip about after tonight, isn't she?"

"She probably already does," Danny mutters. "Erin had her phone out before we even sat down."

"We're really not that interesting." Stiles puts the menu down and fiddles with the green wrapper that had been secured around his napkin.

"Apparently for all of those not in-the-know about the whole werewolf side of things, we are the most interesting thing to happen this summer."

"That's absurd." Danny glances over the menu in the brief silence that follows, even though he hasn't changed his order here since he was eight, and then Stiles continues, words rushed, "Hey, you haven't been avoiding your friends because of me, have you? Because I will definitely go to parties with you, and if you don't want me there, then," he shrugs, "that sucks, but I wouldn't, like, tag along."

"No," Danny says, fast and hard. "No, it's just—none of that really seems important this year. But maybe we can go to one or two. Just to go. I don't know, it's just…not the same anymore. You know?"

"Yeah," Stiles looks up from his hands, "Yeah, I know."

The movie is as terrible as predicted, and Stiles ends up half in Danny's lap by the end of it, curved over the armrest between them and kissing him with a tongue that's still salty from dinner. When the final explosion brings in the end credits and the lights flicker on, the middle-aged woman who had been sitting behind them actually makes a "tsk"ing sound, and Stiles just laughs into Danny's shoulder.

He's never come off of a date feeling so good.

Except that when they walk out to Stiles's car, there are two shadowed figures leaning against it.

"Shit." Stiles has his phone out before Danny's even recognized them as the twins. The phone is back in Stiles's pocket by the time the alphas reach them, and Danny doesn't even know if he had enough time to let the pack know what's going on.

But then that doesn't matter so much because one of the alphas has his fist drawn back and Danny's face explodes in a burst of pain. The alpha hauls him up from the ground by the back of his shirt, dragging him around the theater to the dumpsters in the back before anyone notices them, and Stiles is making sputtering noises; he must have the other's hand over his mouth. But Danny can't see, because the alpha hit him just below the eye, and he's still blinking back spots of pain.

The wolves maneuver them until they're side by side, their backs against the rusty metal of one of the dumpsters. The minute the alpha who's holding Stiles lets go of him, he starts talking.

"Jesus fuck." Stiles's voice is higher than normal, words coming fast. "What the hell was that for? Why the fuck did you hit Danny?"

"We didn't hurt him bad," says the one on the right, the one who hit Danny, and Danny see him now, see his flashing red eyes beneath a long forehead and the way he's rubbing at his knuckles. "We didn't bite him."

The one on the left nudges his brother. "We hear you went looking for us."

Danny would look at Stiles if he didn't think that movement would cause him more pain and possibly prompt the alpha to hit him again. Stiles waves his hand so expansively that it gets in Danny's line of sight. "Not me," he says, "Lydia, Allison. Not me," he repeats to the alphas.

"Semantics," the one on the right says.

"No, it's really not just semantics. We didn't go looking for you, so why did you come looking for us?"

"We wanted you to know that we will not negotiate." The one on the left could be Ethan, he could be Aiden. Erica said she never was able to tell them apart, that they even smelled the same. She said it like it was really wrong, something very off about them.

"Great." Stiles does jazz hands, seriously, fucking jazz hands while they're out behind a movie theater with two alphas burning their red eyes at them, with Danny's face already throbbing, probably well on its way to a bruise. "Have you never heard of, like, the Internet? Pretty sure you could have sent us an email to that effect. Derek's is listed on his Facebook, for future reference. I set it up for him. Or, you know, a phone call? Or maybe you could have knocked on Derek's door during the day and said, 'Hey, dude, we won't negotiate.' That would have worked."

Stiles's ability to babble is really incredible. Danny's never realized before how useful it is when they're trying to stall, but he can feel Stiles's fingers tapping against the metal of the dumpster behind them, like he's counting, and he thinks that he might be trying to figure out how long before someone answers the text that he must have been able to send, because otherwise he would be trying to get them out of here. He would be trying really hard.

"You've got a fucking mouth on you." The one on the left leaps for Stiles in the next second, his fist drawn back as Danny jumps forward, wanting to keep the pain he's feeling from Stiles, trying to get his arms around the alpha's waist, trying to bring him down before he reaches Stiles where he's pressed flat against the dumpster.

But the alpha's fist connects with Stiles's jaw just as Danny is snatched out of the air by Ethan or Aiden, whichever, his arm coming up and folding around Danny's neck, pressing tight enough against his Adam's apple that it's hard to swallow.

"You two," the other one has Stiles in a matching grip, the line of Stiles's jaw red from the force of the alpha's punch, "are really very stupid, you know? You could throw your loyalty anywhere. Why with that pack?"

"Are you offering?" Danny asks, wheezing a little.

"If he were, would you take it?" The alphas words are soft from the way his lips catch around his canines; his tone is hard, a challenge.

"Of course not. I'm not in this for power. Obviously." Because he has never felt more powerless.

"Would you?" The one holding Danny asks Stiles, and Stiles leans his head back against the twin's shoulder, throat long, chin jutting up over his arm.

"No." Stiles says, despite the submissive gesture, despite the way his hair is brushing against the side of Ethan or Aiden's face. "Not even if you had been here back in the beginning." He's talking slowly, like it already hurts to move his mouth too much. Danny wants to get him home, to get ice on his jaw.

"See what we said? Stupid."

"Not so," Stiles answers, and then there's the sound of growling around them, and Derek and Erica are coming from either side, running on all fours and leaping at the wolves.

The alphas release Stiles and Danny to turn to meet Erica and Derek's attack. Stiles pulls something out of his back pocket, a bag of something, and just holds onto it, lingering on the edge of the fight.

The wolves are all growling, all in beta-form, teeth and claws out, and Danny forces himself to watch as Derek gets one of the twins in the back of his neck, throwing him into the chain link fence that lines the parking lot with a sound that can't have gone unnoticed by anyone at the front of the theater, but no one comes running.

Erica's being held down by the other, and Stiles steps forward as Derek grabs onto his neck, too, and sends him to meet his brother. The alphas lie in a heap, shoulders shaking, blood running dark down their backs. Derek and Erica shift again, and Derek grabs on to Erica and Stiles, pushing them back to the well-lit portion of the lot. Danny trails behind, glancing over his shoulder at where the alphas are. They're sitting up, rubbing at their necks. They flash their red eyes at him, but they don't stand. They don't follow.

Erica and Stiles are leaning against the side of the Jeep, taking in deep breaths. Derek's pacing a small line in front of them. Danny falls back beside Stiles, brushing his hand against Stiles's before sticking them in his pockets.

"You two have the worst luck." Erica's eyes are bright when she finally speaks, but her tone is even. Derek places a hand on her shoulder and raises his eyebrows at Stiles and Danny.

"Date night gone wrong? Did they say anything useful?"

Stiles kicks at a rock on the ground. "They're not open to negotiations."

"Beautiful," Erica mutters.

"I thought they weren't supposed to hurt humans?" Danny remembers what Peter said, the way he'd referred to the humans as pets. The way Stiles himself had said they weren't a threat.

"Either they're not playing by the rules," Derek answers, "or that only counts if you approach them. Which I'm guessing you didn't."

"Not intentionally." Stiles rubs at his jaw. "Our third option is that Peter is lying." Derek shakes his head a quick gesture, and Stiles shrugs. "It has to be said, Derek, even if you're not interested in hearing it."

Danny pulls his hand from his pocket and circles it around Stiles's wrist. "This has been just delightful,." Derek looks like he wants to tear into Stiles for a million different reasons, and that is the last thing any of them actually needs right now. "But we should probably get back home. Thanks for coming to rescue our asses."

"Next time, Stiles, maybe get your mountain ash out before your phone?"

"I wasn't sure it would work," Stiles says, rueful. "I wanted to make sure you were on your way before I tried it. And then there wasn't really an opening."

"Sometimes, Stilinski, you gotta make your openings," Erica calls, as she and Derek turn and stride side by side toward the road, hair and clothes a mess, looking dangerous and criminal.

"Are you all right?" Danny asks as Stiles starts to move toward the driver's side.

Stiles pauses by the back bumper. He turns and shakes his head. "Are you? That was—I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry. I picked this, remember?" He waves a hand at his face, the skin around his eye burning with pain. "Besides, I've only ever gotten one of these from lacrosse. This is a new experience."

Stiles sighs. "Definitely an experience I wish you didn't need to have."

"I chose this," Danny repeats. "And I feel better than you look right now. Do you want me to drive?" His eye hurts, but it isn't swollen. Stiles's jaw is already purpling.

"Yeah, sure." Stiles digs into his pockets and hands Danny the keys. "She might be a little resistant at first, but you'll get it."

"I'm sure I won't be defeated by your car," Danny mumbles, and Stiles smirks, the expression a little twisted.

"You wouldn't be the first."

He's only going seven miles over the speed limit when they get pulled over.

"Shit," Stiles mutters, as Danny signals and slows onto the shoulder. "My Jeep," Stiles ducks forward, "she sticks out."

The light that precedes the face leaning into the window is bright and harsh on Stiles's bruise, and Danny imagines it does the same for whatever physical evidence there is of the pain that's throbbing around his eye.

"Mr.," the officer begins, speaking through the rolled down front window, and then he stops, "you're not Stiles."

"Hey, Officer Mitchell," Stiles waves from the passenger seat, leaning around Danny but trying to keep his face tilted so the discoloration of his jaw isn't as obvious. "Danny was just giving the Jeep a go."

"I'm sure it must be a thrill to drive," the man deadpans, biting back a smile. He's older, Stiles's dad's age, and he has laugh lines around his eyes. Danny's heart stops rocketing so much.

But then the man turns his attention back to Danny and blinks, eyes having adjusted to the brightness of his flashlight in the small space of the Jeep. "Jesus, son. What happened to your face?"

Danny shakes his head. "It's nothing," he tries.

"Clearly," the man looks at Stiles again, Stiles who is bobbing his head, trying so hard to keep his bruise from being obvious that it's become impossible to miss. "You too, Stiles?" And then he takes a breath, like he's diving, "You didn't do this to each other, did you?"

"No! Of course we didn't."

Stiles's response is more reserved, less offended. More accepting. He just shakes his head.

There's a loud staticy sound, the officer's radio going off behind them, and he gives them both an assessing look before turning to answer it.

Stiles cranes his neck to look at the back window. "It's times like this I really wish either you or I had werewolf hearing. Because, seriously, I would love to know what's more important than figuring out the nature of the sheriff's kid's abusive relationship."

"Don't," Danny snaps. "Don't joke about that. It's not all right."

"Sorry, it's just," but the cop is back before Stiles can say whatever he was going to, and Danny can't help but be a little relieved. He doesn't think he wants that conversation to continue.

"Where were you boys tonight?" Officer Mitchell's would-be casual tone immediately puts Danny on edge.

"Movies," he answers, not seeing any reason to lie about that. They hadn't left any casualties at the theater; they hadn't started it.

"See anything good?" He presses, and Stiles shifts in the passenger seat. If Danny looks at him, he knows he'll start blushing.

But Stiles, surprising, ridiculous Stiles, says, "That one with the Transporter dude in it? But it was awful, we didn't really end up seeing much of any of it." And then he adds, because he knows exactly how far to push, "If you know what I mean."

It's hard to tell in the light from the flashlight, but Danny thinks the cop has just turned redder than Danny's ever been. In his whole life. Redder even than in his newborn baby photos.

And then the officer swallows and says, tone hesitant, "Did you boys run into trouble there?"

"Not the kind you mean," Stiles answers. "We're fine," with an emphasis on the fine.

The cop nods. "I'm going to let you go this time. Drive more carefully in the future. Stiles," he waves a hand through the window and is back in his car before Danny finishes rolling it up.

The car passes them, lights flashing, as Danny shifts into drive and rests his foot on the brake, waiting for the red blue pattern to disappear among the trees.

"Jesus, that was weird." Stiles rubs at his jaw again, shoulders drawing in a little. "I wonder what's going on that got him to leave so quickly. Usually it takes ages to argue my way out of a ticket, and that's without the added complication of bruises."

"Well, first off, you told him that we spent the entire movie hooking up, so I'm sure that made him incredibly uncomfortable. And then, whatever he got a call about?"

"Whatever was going off on the scanner, you mean? That's probably more the problem. I've said awkward things to everyone on the force by now. They've got to be used to it."

"You're a strange person." Danny eases the Jeep back into the road. "So the call—do you think it had something to do with what happened tonight?"

"Maybe. Knowing our luck, probably." Danny glances over to see Stiles pressing at his jaw.

"You know touching it isn't going to make it feel any better?" Danny lifts his hand off of the gearshift and pulls at Stiles's forearm.

Stiles lets Danny settle his hand in his lap and shrugs as Danny lets go of him. "What the twins did to us could have been a diversion, a distraction. We should've followed Mitch, then we'd know for sure."

"You don't think he'd have been suspicious if we just took off after him?"

"Not if we were stealthy about it."

Danny turns down his street. "Stiles, your Jeep is many things, but she is not stealthy."

"He is not the most observant of cops, though. I bet we'd have gotten away with it."

"Until we pulled up at the crime scene and your dad saw us." Danny rolls to a stop outside of his house. Stiles groans.

"Yeah, yeah, good point. I would really love to know what the hell is going on, though. Like, that attack on us made so little sense, and now Mitch is giving out easy warnings? Hell, he didn't even ask for your license. He didn't even document it."

"Unfortunately, I bet we'll find out what's going on soon."

"I'll let you know if I hear before Derek does." Danny puts the Jeep in park and undoes his seatbelt. "Get some ice on that eye, all right?"

"You get some ice." Danny leans over, pushing the door open with one hand while very lightly kissing half of Stiles's mouth, on the side that's not noticeably swollen. "What's our story?"

"Got into it with some kids after the movie. They were assholes, we showed them."

Danny hops out of the Jeep and Stiles climbs out of the passenger side. "Were they assholes about anything in particular?"

"I don't know, the movie? Our lies don't have to be that specific; everyone knows we're lying anyway."

"My family doesn't," Danny says, soft, and Stiles blinks at him. They're standing in front of the Jeep, its parking lights picking out specks of gnats floating in the air, the vivid shape of Stiles's newly deformed chin, the probable redness on Danny's face.

"Oh." Stiles reaches for Danny, a quick gesture he drops before completion, his fingers just brushing against the back of his hand and his knuckles before he lets them fall. "They don't," like he's just realizing this isn't the same for everyone. "We'll tell them the guys were assholes because…" he picks at the skin around his thumbnail. Danny shifts an inch closer to him. "Why's there violence for normal people?"

"Because people suck." Danny sticks his hands in his pockets, wanting to touch Stiles and knowing from the way Stiles has hunched in on himself that he doesn't want to be touched. "How about we say they tapped the Jeep and we yelled at them and voila, bruises?"

"But the Jeep doesn't have a new scratch or dent?"

"Stiles," Danny waves his hand at the car. The front fender is decorated in scratches, just like the back, just like the sides. "Do you think your dad actually catalogues the marks on your car?"

"He might," Stiles mutters. "Whatever, it's better than my story. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," and Stiles walks around him, bumping his shoulders but not leaning into him, and Danny had thought they were getting somewhere earlier, but he's not sure where they've got to now.

:::

Stiles texts him at five. He wouldn't have woken up to it, except he'd turned the volume on his phone up all the way the night before, thinking he might be too tired to wake up to the alarm if it weren't at a wall-shaking volume. He swears when his phone buzzes and chimes with Stiles's early text, hands scrabbling at his side table to silence the damn thing.

He opens the text, squinting painfully, skin around his eye still throbbing, and reads, Dad got home. Said a girl was attacked. Not dead. Scott has a call in to his mom. Derek and Erica are at the hospital. Are you busy?

God. No. Do you want me to come over?

Stiles's response comes through minutes later, after Danny has already gotten up and pulled on a t-shirt and gone to brush his teeth, grimacing at his purple-eyed reflection in the mirror. He's awful looking. Stiles probably looks worse, he reminds himself, as he pulls up the most recent text. Snuck out my window. I'm on my way.

He doesn't bother texting back, just walks quietly and barefoot down the carpeted hall and the stairs, unlocking and opening the front door. If his parents wake up, they'll be surprised that Stiles is here so early. They'll ask him what happened to his face. They'll ask him if he's okay, and then they'll go back to sleep. If Julia wakes up, she'll be ecstatic. His parents will be happy about Stiles, he thinks, because they actually go to the same school, because Danny does things with Stiles, things like running and going to the movies and playing videogames.

Not that he hadn't done those things with his previous boyfriends, just…they tended to do them elsewhere, not in Beacon Hills. Not in his house. His parents like the closeness Stiles creates. They wouldn't say no to Stiles staying the night; they won't say no to him showing up at five in the morning. They're not as protective as the sheriff, but they haven't necessarily had reason to be, either.

Stiles pulls the Jeep to a stop on the street. He climbs out, looking like a disaster, and comes towards Danny, sitting stiffly beside him.

"My dad said the girl was torn almost to pieces, but that she was still alive. They left her out on the edge of the Preserve. I think he would have suspected me of being involved, if they had used their fists instead of their claws."

"Your dad can't," Danny begins, and Stiles drops his forehead into his hands, heels digging against his eyes. Watching him makes Danny's face start throbbing again.

"You're right, you're right, he probably wouldn't think that. He probably wouldn't. It's just, I don't know? And there's a girl hurt, and we were a distraction, and I don't get the point of this. It all—everything the alphas have done," Stiles is speaking fast and softly, "everything the alphas have done makes no sense. I don't get it. If they want territory, if they want Derek, if they want to kill us—nothing they've done has an actual purpose."

The sun is rising, and everything is going to be bright in a moment, but right now it is shadowed and violet, colored like their bruises, and the whole morning feels desperate. "Then they're insane or they want something we haven't thought of."

"What, though?"

Danny pushes himself to his feet. "I don't know, Stiles. Come upstairs. It can wait a little while, while we sleep some more."

Stiles follows him quietly, stepping up the stairs on his toes, looking like a little kid, like someone who's never hidden anywhere before. He almost knocks over the lamp on Danny's desk the minute they get into Danny's room, catching it before it clatters to the floor, and Danny raises his eyebrows at him, the pull pulsing at his eye. "Sorry," Stiles mouths.

"It's fine, idiot. Come here." He hops back into his bed, a full size that's just big enough for him and Stiles to fit in, and Stiles hesitates by his desk before reaching an arm over his head and tugging his t-shirt off by his collar. Danny stares. Stiles is all pale skin and a stretch of dark hair and muscles, slim well-defined monster-fighting muscles. Danny's seen him shirtless before—hell, he's seen him nearly naked, and that's definitely been a feature of his fantasies—but not since this all started, not since he thought to really look at him.

Stiles keeps his eyes down as he moves towards Danny's bed. He doesn't raise his head even as he sits on the edge of the mattress and lifts his legs up, basketball shorts riding up his thighs a little, back straight, shoulders angled.

Danny takes a breath, presses one hand against the center of Stiles's back, so his middle finger runs right along his spine. Stiles's skin is warm. He drops his head forward, his neck curving. Danny sits up, his left shoulder pressing just barely against Stiles's right shoulder blade, and kisses where his neck meets his shoulder. The skin is taut there, stretched with the way Stiles's neck is angled, and he lets out a small squeak of noise as Danny parts his lips and sucks.

By the time Stiles lifts his head and pushes up a little on the bed, shifting so he's sitting facing Danny, Danny's left a pretty startling mark on his shoulder. Stiles is blushing all over. Danny feels hot.

Stiles reaches out and tugs at the collar of Danny's t-shirt. "It might be good for you to take that off," he says, and Danny strips it off without hesitating. Stiles pushes forward, presses Danny back into the bed, kissing him, angle a little off because he's being careful of his bruised jaw.

Stiles's mouth, though, is familiar and wet, and Danny will never get tired of the way he takes and takes and draws him in, but the press of Stiles's warm skin against his is delirious. It's insane. It unleashes a new feeling in his gut, something hot and shivery. It's anticipatory, as he unconsciously jerks his hips up, trying for friction, which Stiles grants with a small moan into his mouth. Danny knows where this is going, but the feeling is also settled, content. Confident.

Stiles is grinding down into him, the spaces and material between them still too much, but the feeling is fast becoming agonizing, right on the verge of painful, right around wanting more space and more material, because they're not getting where they're going fast enough.

Danny feels like this is the first time anyone's seen him about to come. Feels embarrassed and foolish and sloppy, and then he looks at Stiles, above him, lips parted and shoulders tense and hair a mess, eyes shut, and thrusts against him, both of them still with their shorts on, both of them completely undone, and he says, "Open your eyes," just, just as his body lets go entirely and he's shaking, his head tilting back. He has never felt this wrecked, this good.

No competition. He doesn't care if that's insane, because it was so fast and they're still half-clothed and his hands are only just tucked beneath the waistband of Stiles's shorts and Stiles's hands are in the sheets on either side of Danny, fingers tight around the material and arms straining, and Stiles's jaw is purple and Danny's left eye hurts and it's still the best Danny's ever felt.

Stiles presses a terribly chaste kiss to his throat as he falls down, his body shaking, releasing. The places they're pressed together are wet and too tender, and Danny's overly aware of Stiles's hips and his dick and his legs, even, the post-orgasm shivers extending all over his body.

Stiles rolls off after a moment, and he lets out a breath like—Danny's not sure what it means. He thinks it sounds awkward, maybe.

He reaches for Stiles's hand without looking, finds it after fumbling a moment at his stomach and the damp nylon of his shorts, feeling the flush burning up his neck again, until he has his fingers wind through Stiles's.

Stiles doesn't say anything at first, lets Danny twist their fingers together so tightly it's got to hurt, because Danny's fingers feel cramped with it, but he has no interest in letting go.

"Why haven't we been doing that for years?" he asks, and Danny's head falls to the side so he can look at him. Stiles is staring at him, lips red and jaw purpleish and eyes still dark and hair still an absolute mess, and he's smiling a little. Tentatively.

"You were hung up on Lydia and I was wasting my time," Danny answers, even though he thinks that's probably a disingenuous way of presenting the last few years. His ex-boyfriends weren't all assholes. Stiles wasn't focused solely on Lydia. "Or, we just didn't know to look."

"It was mostly a hypothetical question," Stiles tells him, that small smile a little more set on his mouth. "I thought, last night—just, what the hell was I waiting for, you know? We're good together, I think."

"We are," Danny affirms, even though he's not sure if Stiles wants affirmation. He's not sure if Stiles needs it anymore. He thinks that this might be more than just the result of built-up horniness of making out to the point of blue balls a few (okay, a lot of) times, this whole thing might mean that Stiles knows that they're for real. That Stiles finally accepts that Danny's not being an ass, that he's not using him, that they're not going to go back to school and drift away from each other.

This means that Stiles trusts him. And more than anything else, Danny knows that Stiles's trust is hard-won. He rolls fully to his side and kisses Stiles, careful of his swollen skin, mouth open but tongue lazy, and Stiles bites at his lower lip until he deepens the kiss and takes a little more aggressively. They're learning how to do this, and Danny cannot remember being happier.

:::

The girl's name is Ellen. According to Scott, her parents are taking turns crying outside of her room in the ICU. According to Mrs. McCall, the wolves used their claws; she was not bitten. According to Derek, she doesn't smell like she's dying. Erica says she doesn't sound like she's turning.

They meet in the waiting room of the ER, a few pale people scattered around, one man with a paper towel blooming red wrapped around his hand, one woman clutching her stomach. Otherwise it's calm. But there's a girl somewhere in the hallways behind the swinging doors who's been attacked by alpha werewolves, and Danny is struck again by how absurd it is that so few people here actually know, actually understand how the world really works, what it's really made of. And more than half of them are teenagers. It's ridiculous, he thinks, as he hunches his shoulders and tries to focus on what Jackson's saying.

They're all there, in a circle by the hallway leading to the vending machines, and they probably look suspicious as fuck, but Mrs. McCall is working and they all want to talk to her. She says the girl didn't get bitten, and then she gets paged, and they linger, waiting for her to return to explain how it could be that this girl has been ripped to shreds but that no teeth were used on her—how she can tell.

Jackson's shaking his head. "It's so fucking dumb," he's saying, over and over in different ways, "it makes no sense."

Lydia rests a hand on his shoulder and looks at Danny. "Do you think that the twins were meant to be a distraction when they attacked you last night?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers, "I think so."

"It worked," Derek says, gruff. "Erica and I should've split up. One of us could've handled them."

"That's bullshit," Danny tells him. "You couldn't have known, and also, maybe one of you could've handled the twins, maybe," he doubts it, but Derek's glaring at him, so he'll half give it to him, "but one of you could definitely not have handled the other three."

"Can Deucalion even do anything?" Scott asks. "He's blind."

Erica makes a small disbelieving sound. "Don't be an idiot, McCall. He's terrifying." She sticks her hands in the pockets of her jeans and leans back against Boyd. "I've never seen anyone fight the way he does. I would rather face all four of the others together than him alone."

"How are we meant to fight him, then?" Jackson shakes his head. "This is so stupid."

"We get that it's stupid, Jackson, thank you." Danny nudges Stiles, and he glances at him but doesn't look at all apologetic. "The problem isn't really how we fight them, right now, is it? It's more, what the hell are the even doing here?"

Derek's about to respond, mouth open, when the wolves' heads jerk towards the glass doors at the entrance to the ER and Scott hisses out a, "Shit." The sheriff and three of his deputies walk in.

Stiles tries to move behind Danny, but the sudden jerky movement draws his dad's attention, and the sheriff takes in the group in one long scan, not blinking as his gaze flicks from person to person, landing finally on Derek. He scowls and turns to say something to his deputies that makes all the wolves shift nervously. Stiles tangles his hand in the hem of his shirt.

The deputies approach the front desk, where one of the secretaries is chewing on a pen cap and watching the drama unfold. The sheriff comes toward them.

"Kids," he says, evenly, and then, in an entirely different tone of voice, deeper and slightly threatening, "Mr. Hale."

"Hi, Dad," Stiles says, tone bright, as the others offer varying versions of, "Hi, Sheriff," and "Hello, sir," and Scott mumbles something that sounds apologetic.

"I thought I told you to stay home until we discussed what happened last night." The sheriff directs a glare at Stiles. "But now that I see that Mr. Mahealani was also involved, maybe he'd be willing to fill me in."

"It wasn't really a big deal," Stiles mutters. "I told you, some kids scratched the Jeep, we yelled after them, they got out, hit us, moved on, we got slightly injured."

The sheriff's expression doesn't change. "I find that difficult to believe."

"It's true, sir," Danny tries, and the sheriff raises his eyebrows at him. Which is a little bit terrifying.

"And yet I still don't believe it. Neither of you look at all like you tried to defend yourselves. And Stiles, at least, knows how to throw a punch." Stiles stands a little straighter, as if his dad is praising him. Danny supposes he sort of is. "And I assume you do, as well, considering that you're on the lacrosse team. Used to defending yourself, aren't you?" The sheriff looks from Stiles to Danny and shakes his head, "So, unfortunately, I don't believe you. I wish I did." He says the last part softly, like he doesn't really intend for them to hear it. "But, also unfortunately, that is not exactly the issue right now. What are you all doing here? Is someone hurt?"

"We were waiting to see my mom," Scott tries.

The sheriff nods. "Of course you are. Mr. Hale, you know Melissa?"

Derek flushes. It's an interesting look on him. He doesn't meet the sheriff's eyes as he answers, gruff, "Yeah."

"She helped him get his job at the rest home," Stiles explains, and, wow, is that news to Danny.

The sheriff doesn't say anything, just looks around at all of them as if looking for the one most likely to crack. His gaze settles on Erica. Danny feels Stiles tense beside him, and Boyd rests a hand on Erica's waist, drawing her against him.

"Ms. Reyes," his tone is softer, and that seems to upset Erica more than anything, "How have you been?"

"Good," Erica says, nearly matching Derek for gruffness. The sheriff looks taken aback, blinking, mouth tightening into a scowl.

"Kids," Mrs. McCall pushes through the swinging doors, her lips rolling together when she notices the sheriff. "Sheriff, Maddie's going to take you all back to meet with the girl's family." She gestures at a young nurse lingering at her right shoulder. The girl gives them all a curious look before dropping her gaze back to her white sneakers.

Stiles's dad looks at them. "Okay," he draws the word out. "Keep an eye on them, all right?" he says as he passes Mrs. McCall and she nods, smiling at him as he joins back up with his deputies and disappears inside the hospital.

The group releases a collective breath. Stiles sags against Danny and Mrs. McCall shakes her head. "You all need to be more careful, or you need to tell him. It might help," she addresses Stiles, who's already shaking his head. "It helped me."

"But wouldn't you rather be completely oblivious still?" Stiles asks, voice quiet.

Mrs. McCall looks over Stiles's shoulder, at Derek, Danny thinks, at Scott, and she says, "I don't have the luxury to wish that. You're all involved, and so am I. Your dad would see it the same way."

Stiles shrugs, and Mrs. McCall nods. "All right, then. No one's forcing you," although it occurs to Danny that it might be a good idea for someone to force the issue, because Stiles seems to get emptier every time he lies to his dad, emptier and more reckless at once.

"She wasn't bitten," Derek interjects, and Mrs. McCall nods.

"She wasn't bitten." And then she diagrams the girl's injuries, speaking softly so that if anyone happens to wander near them they won't be able to hear what she's saying, how many privacies she's betraying. The girl has six slices down her torso, deep enough to have broken skin, but not deep enough to have done any permanent damage, aside from scarring, "Obviously," Mrs. McCall says, and there's pity underlying the near-callous word. Her face, luckily, is untouched, her thighs have two cuts down them, her calves each have one, her knees are a mess and so are her palms, but more like she tripped. "She's on enough morphine to keep her unconscious for a while. When she starts doing better, though, she's going to be questioned. Hopefully," she shakes her head, "what are we hoping for, this time?" And Scott's mom looks impossibly young, faced with this. There's no way to get old enough to deal with this sort of thing, Danny doesn't think.

But Stiles accepts it, pushes through the awkward question like it's ordinary. "Mountain lion, I'd say. If she says it's a mountain lion, she can avoid the psych visit."

"You think she'll know enough to know that?"

"It's possible that she'll have convinced herself that that's what it was," Mrs. McCall says, in the face of Isaac's speculation. "It was only six months ago that the police were blaming everything on mountain lions, too. She might settle on that as an easier answer than whatever she did see."

"It's definitely saner," Jackson mutters. "Well, hey, at least we don't have to deal with a new beta."

"Or the alphas don't need to," Lydia points out. "Since she'd have been theirs."

"Which is something they definitely don't want."

Mrs. McCall's phone buzzes, and she glances at the screen before waving at them. "You should all get out of here. I'll keep Scott updated, okay?"

They file out as she turns back to the front desk, and Scott pulls out his phone and turns up the volume as they blink into the early afternoon sunlight. "What do we do?" he asks Derek.

Derek shakes his head. "I have no idea," he growls, the admission drawn from his mouth slowly, gratingly. "If we knew what they want—but we don't."

"So how do we find out?" Danny reaches into his pocket and begins fiddling with his phone. He wants to hack something, call someone, dig until they're in open air again.

"Nothing we do works." Erica runs one hand through her hair, catching a few strands and watching them float away on the breeze. Lydia wrinkles her nose. "I can't think anymore, I can't remember whether they said anything useful at all."

"No one's trying to get you to," Boyd says, voice steady.

"But if I could, if I could just figure it out," Erica spits. "God, this is so fucked up. They had me for months. I was with them for months. I should be more help."

"You're helping," Derek says.

"But," Erica begins, and Derek shakes his head.

"No, you are helping." He growls the words, and Erica's shoulders rise and her eyes flash red for just an instant, and then she's gulping in air and staring at her hands, her human hands, and nodding.

"Okay," her voice is soft. "Okay."

"Okay." Derek turns to face them, and he sighs. "You all go home. Scott, let us know what your mom says. Erica and Boyd and I are going to go meet with Peter. We'll let you know whether he's any help." Derek looks doubtful enough that no one responds to that, not even Stiles, even though Danny would bet good money that he has a few choice phrases lined up. Hell, Danny could say something about Peter and helpfulness, and he doesn't even really know him.

"The rest of you, just, think." He looks at Stiles, in particular, and Lydia, and they glance at each other and nod. "And stay out of trouble," Derek adds, as he heads off across the lot, Boyd and Erica following.

Stiles had driven, but he and Lydia are conferring over by Jackson's Porsche, and so Danny heads over there, too. "Why don't you two head back to Stiles's?" he suggests, coming up beside Jackson, who's leaning against his car looking intensely bored. "Jackson'll give me a ride home."

Jackson perks up at that, smiling close-mouthed at Danny and probably envisioning a stop by the gym and maybe some videogames, although all Danny really wants to do is go home and crawl into bed.

"And, what, you two will 'think' while Stiles and I do all the work?"

"We'll think," Jackson protests. Danny just shrugs. He'll try, but he's not entirely sure what good he'll be. Alpha pack machinations seem a little out of his depth.

"Fine," Lydia sighs, leans forward and kisses Jackson lightly. Stiles is making a face as she backs away, and she hits him in the shoulder. "You and Danny are much grosser," she declares. "See you later, boys."

Stiles looks at Danny, his face a little closed off, and ignoring Jackson's warning huff, Danny steps towards him and kisses him lightly, to the side of his bruise. "Keep icing that."

"Your face is a disaster," Stiles says, "So I'll only ice if you ice."

"Ass," Danny mutters, only meaning it a little. He catches Stiles's hand as he's about to turn, and squeezes, and Stiles flashes him a genuine smile over his shoulder.

"You guys really are gross," Jackson tells him as he slides into the passenger seat of the Porsche.

"Whatever." Danny's oddly okay with that.

There's a police car outside of Danny's house when they get there. Danny stares at it. It looks out of place, absurd, taking up half his driveway.

"Danny?" Jackson's voice is hesitant, and Danny's just staring, just staring at that fucking cop car in his driveway and he can't figure anything out.

And then Jackson lets out a breath and says, "Everyone's home, no one's hurt," which is good, of course, obviously, it's great, but then there's the possibility the cop car is somehow here for him, and Danny counts off the many not-exactly-legal things he's done, stopping at hacking the DMV's car registry, because if it's something, then it's probably that.

"They're talking," Jackson says, eyes squeezed shut. "I can't quite make out the words, your neighbor's lawnmower." His neighbor is mowing his lawn, but he keeps stopping halfway through a row, mower still running, and looking over at Danny's house. "But I think they're in the living room. Your parents and Julia and just one cop."

He opens his eyes and looks at Danny, who's lowered his gaze to his hands. "Do you want to leave?"

Danny shakes his head. "I should go in. You can go, though. I'll text you."

Jackson waits until he's opened the door to leave, which is out of character for him. Usually he pulls away while Danny's still getting out. It makes Danny even more nervous.

He steps inside and through the small mudroom. The cop is sitting in his dad's armchair; Danny barely glances at him. His parents are bracketing Julia on the couch, and his mom turns to look over the back of the couch when he pauses in the doorway. Her forehead is wrinkled, nervous, sad.

Her eyes widen at the sight of his black eye. She opens her mouth, but Danny shakes his head. "It's nothing. Misunderstanding." His dad glances at him, narrows his eyes. "Really," he says. "It's nothing. Julia," his sister has her face in her hands, and her shoulders are shaking over the edge of the couch, "Jules?" She doesn't move.

He steps forward, and then the cop says, "Aren't you Stiles's boyfriend?" and Danny recognizes him as Officer Mitchell from the night before, his face clearer in the daylight, less distorted by shadows.

"Yeah." Of fucking course it's the same cop.

"Of course you are." Officer Mitchell parrots Danny's thoughts. He sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "Nothing's ever simple," he mutters. "Might as well take a seat, son."

"Danny," Julia lets out a choked sound, and he comes around the couch, squeezing between her and his mother. She rests her hand on his knee and Julia turns, pressing her face into his shoulder, dampening his shirt immediately.

"What's going on?" Danny glances from Officer Mitchell to his dad, rubbing a hand down Julia's back as she sobs silent tears onto his shoulder.

"You want to tell me again where you were last night?" The cop asks, his tone tired, not at all aggressive, and Danny sighs.

"We went to the movies. We saw that new action flick, it was horrible." He feels slightly vindicated when the cop's gaze jerks away for an instant, neck reddening, before returning to his face. "We came out, got in Stiles's car, and someone swiped the back bumper. It barely left a scratch." This is all coming out too rehearsed. Stiles probably would have done a better job. "We got out, yelled at them, the guys stopped, punched us, took off." His mom pats her hand against his knee.

"And you didn't fight back? You didn't call anyone—no one saw?" The cop asks.

"Happened pretty fast." Danny shrugs, jostling Julia a little. She clings tighter. He hasn't seen her like this in years, possibly since their grandmother died and they flew to Hawaii for the funeral. "What happened?" he asks her, speaking down, softly, so the cop won't think he's asking him, but Julia just shakes her head, still not releasing him.

"All right. For simplicity's sake, let's assume you're telling the truth. You weren't at a party at Liam Waterman's house, then?"

"No," Danny shakes his head, "We knew about it, but we didn't go." Julia lets out a shaky breath and starts to pull away. He drops his hand from her back and watches as she wipes her hands against her red cheeks.

"I went," she confesses. "And it was," she glances at her parents, "I mean, I went with Ellen, my friend from basketball?" And suddenly Danny understands everything. He cuts a glance at the cop, who has definitely noticed the change in his facial expression.

"You know about Ms. Hart already?" Officer Mitchell prompts.

"I'm dating the sheriff's son," Danny says. He had forgotten Julia even knew her, actually. Ellen is a freshman, Danny hadn't even known her name until Stiles had pulled Danny's yearbook out from under a pile of clothes and searched the pages, pointing at her with a shaking finger that morning, after they'd showered and changed and had stopped touching each other long enough to focus on the disaster of the night before.

"And Stiles still hasn't learned to stay out of his father's business?" That can't really be a question.

"He's Stiles." Danny's dad shakes his head at him.

"Daniel," he warns. It occurs to Danny that his tone throughout this whole interview has not been the most respectful. But, seriously, there are werewolves. Werewolves, and this cop is questioning his baby sister.

"Sorry." He stares at his hands. "No, Stiles has not learned to stay out of his father's business. What does what happened to Ellen have to do with Julia?" What if Julia had seen something, Danny wonders. What if he has to lie to her? He doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know if he'll even try to.

"I was the last person to see her," Julia says through a hiccup. "At the party. She went to get a Coke," Officer Mitchell rolls his eyes, but Julia is adamant, "No, honest. She just went to get a soda, she wasn't drinking beer at all, she really wasn't, and it was still early. I went looking for her a few minutes later and couldn't find her anywhere, and then," she shrugs, a tiny motion of her shoulders, "you found her in the woods?" And then she's crying again, covering her face. Their dad pulls her over to him, and Danny drops his chin in his hands.

He wants to tell Julia that Ellen will be okay, but he doesn't think he's supposed to know that. He doesn't know if Officer Mitchell is as well informed as he is, but he has a feeling that he probably isn't.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he drops his hand but doesn't pull it out, because Office Mitchell is staring at him. "So the last time you saw Ellen, she was going to get a soda," the cop repeats, asking Julia but still watching Danny, "and no one else had seen her?"

Julia shakes her head against their dad's shoulder. "I asked around, because I was her ride, but no one—she wasn't there anymore." She's speaking into their dad's shirt, her voice muffled and wet.

"And when you couldn't find her, you came home?"

"I was home before Danny was." Which really isn't helpful to him at all. The cop raises his eyebrows.

"What'd you think happened to your friend?" He says it not like he's trying to make her guilty, just like he's genuinely curious.

Julia jerks her head up and spits, her tone hard and fierce, "I thought she'd gone home with someone else. What, you thought I'd just let her get ripped to pieces?" and she's sobbing, her hands covering her face. Officer Mitchell shifts, wiping his palms on his thighs. For the first time, he looks uncomfortable.

"She's going to be okay." Danny cannot take it anymore, this crying, this awful way way his sister's grieving.

"How do you know?" The words are barely discernable among Julia's tears. Everyone's looking at him.

"I just do," he says. "I promise."

Officer Mitchell tilts his head. "I may need to speak with you later, Daniel. I'm sorry to have brought such bad news." He stands up, walks over to shake Danny's dad's hand. "And, Ms. Mahealani, thank you for answering my questions. I'm sure this can't have been comfortable."

Danny's mom stands to walk him out. His dad waits until he hears the door shut before turning to face Danny, head tilted to the side. Danny's parents have always been easygoing, but he knows his mom is standing behind the couch, now, and neither of them is going to let up until he answers some questions.

"There were just some assholes at the theater," Danny says. "They laid into us for no reason. We're fine. And I know Scott McCall, whose mom is a nurse at the hospital. She's treating Ellen, so she knows what's going on. She told Scott because he was worried." A small partial lie. Scott had been worried, but not for the reasons he's hoping his parents and Julia will accept. Julia sniffles.

"So she really is going to be okay?"

Danny nods, holds out his pinky. Julia links hers with his. "Pinky swear, she'll be fine."

"Julia," his mom's tone is soft, "why don't you go up and shower. We want to talk to Danny."

Julia makes a face at him, ugly with her bloodshot eyes and shiny cheeks, and he attempts a smile. She slides off the couch and disappears up the stairs, stepping loudly.

"You and Stiles are dating, now?" His mom sits down in the chair the cop had vacated.

"I thought everyone knew that." There are coasters on the coffee table, laid out for four glasses that had never made it there this morning. He pictures his mom offering water or coffee, stopping short when the cop said something about Ellen, something to make Julia cry.

"How were we supposed to know that? We barely see you anymore."

"I thought Julia told you." Danny reaches out and spins one of the coasters so it's at an angle. "Besides, he's here all the time." He had thought his parents were happy with Stiles—it hadn't occurred to him that they hadn't even realized they were something other than friends.

"Jackson used to be over all the time," his dad points out.

"Yeah, but Stiles is," Danny shrugs, "he's not Jackson."

"We're not saying we don't approve, or that we're worried," his mom says, although it really sounds like they're saying both of those things, "just that we wish you had told us."

"I really just thought you'd assume?"

"Now that we know," his mom cuts off that topic before they can circle back around one more time, "maybe we can talk about the black eye?"

"Like I said, just some jerks at the movies. Nothing to worry about."

"Was it about you and Stiles being together?" His dad says it hesitantly, like just the thought is dangerous.

"No," Danny shakes his head, "no, it really wasn't. Just the car, and the guys being assholes—sorry, and us not caring enough to make it into a bigger deal. Seriously." He looks up at his dad. "Honest," he meets his gaze, and his dad holds it for a long moment before nodding.

"Okay. And how about how you spoke to Officer Mitchell? Because that was not how we raised you, Danny. That was not polite."

"He was upsetting Julia," Danny attempts.

"Some animal attacked Julia's friend and upset Julia," his mom corrects. "Officer Mitchell was just doing his job. He shouldn't need to deal with rude teenagers on top of it."

"Sorry," Danny mutters to the table.

"You should maybe tell him that."

"You sounded pretty suspicious, son." His dad stands and ruffles his hair. "You should be more careful if you're going to spend your time getting into gang fights."

Danny tries to laugh, but it comes out choked. His parents don't seem to notice.

The text Danny got during Officer Mitchell's interrogation is from Scott. He checks it after throwing a load of laundry in the machine. Mom says doctors say ellen's prog…thing is good. Danny shows the text to Julia, who's stopped crying and manages a relieved smile.

She pulls Danny down onto her bed beside her. "Mom and Dad aren't grounding me, are they?"

Danny shakes his head. "You're allowed to go to friends' houses. You didn't do anything wrong."

"They're not grounding you, are they?"

"No, although they probably thought about it."

She reaches out and touches the bruise on his face. "Was this really from some asshole who hit Stiles's car?"

Danny nods, not looking away.

"And you didn't know them?"

He shakes his head. "Must've been from out of town. They looked like they were maybe a few years older than us."

"Huh." Julia reaches for her laptop. "Want to watch an episode of Toddlers in Tiaras?"

They end up watching six.

:::

Stiles and Lydia come up with some ideas, which they share with the rest of the pack over soda and snacks in Scott's kitchen the next afternoon, but none of them actually seem likely.

"Territory makes no sense," Lydia ticks off, holding up her index finger, "pack makes no sense—even if just Derek, they'd have had to have made some move other than pissing him off—drawing out the Argents makes no sense, since (a) there are larger contingencies elsewhere and (b) Chris is 'retired,' revenge makes no sense, because even Peter admits he's never heard of this particular alpha pack before." She shakes her head. "I don't understand."

It's pretty shocking to hear Lydia admit that, and Danny glances at Jackson. He looks as scared as Danny's ever seen him.

"This is ridiculous," Jackson mutters, and everyone murmurs consent, even Stiles.

"We just need to keep thinking," Derek says, like that will actually do something, at this point.

"Can't we just give up trying to strategize and just, like, attack them?" Isaac leans forward on the table. "I know they're stronger than us, but there are more of us."

"No," Stiles snaps. "That's a bad idea, dude. You know what happens when we run in claws out."

"We get hurt, yeah, but we survive it." Boyd crosses his arms, stance intimidating.

"We might not, this time. We've never fought something like this before." Allison is leaning against the doorway leading from the kitchen to the living room, and she's got her arms crossed. She looks tense.

"Isaac has a point, though," Derek says, slowly. "Not that I think we should go in, as Stiles says, claws out," he shoots a half-amused glare at Stiles, "but we can't just circle this forever. Especially if they attack other humans. Because, obviously, that's not good, but also, Allison, your dad has to be thinking that something is up."

Allison tightens her arms across her stomach. "He does. He asked me if I had seen you all around town. I told him point blank it wasn't you, figured there was no point in dodging the issue. He said he figured as much, asked me if I knew who it was."

The room goes still. Allison waits a few agonizing seconds before saying, "I said I did, but that we were dealing with it." She waves a hand. "Technically I'm grounded."

"You're acting like me." Stiles sounds gleeful. Allison laughs. It's only half-happy, but it's more than Danny would expect, considering the way she's standing like she's barely holding herself together.

"And he didn't ask you anything else?" Derek can't continue this line of questioning, but Erica will.

Allison shrugs. "He did, I didn't answer him."

"You still think it's a good idea to keep him out of it? He might help."

Allison shakes her head at Scott. "He won't, and we definitely don't want anyone else from my family coming in. I don't know any of them well enough to know their hunting styles, but I think they'll tend more towards my—more towards my mom's."

Everyone looks at the floor.

"So no hunters," Stiles finally says, and Danny has possibly never been more grateful for him, "check."

"This is so fucking frustrating." Isaac leans on the kitchen table, hands fisted. "I hate not doing anything."

"Want to go play a game of lacrosse?" Scott suggests, and Danny expects everyone to laugh, shake their heads, and go back to whining about how there really is nothing they can do, but Isaac tilts his head, nods.

"Yeah." And then everyone is filing out to Scott's backyard, which is nowhere near big enough for a full-scale game, but is definitely big enough for them to toss a ball around.

Derek stays for a little while before he heads off, ostensibly to get some rest, although Danny suspects he's going patrolling.

Danny's tired by the time he gets home, eats a quick dinner with his family, and crawls into bed. He's just searching Google for a movie to watch while he falls asleep when he hears a tap at his window.

He jumps off his bed and has the window open before he's fully registered that it's Erica perched there, looking perfectly natural hanging from the roof over his window.

"Hey." He steps back so she can slide inside. She looks fine, shaking a few Dogwood petals off her shoulders. They fall to the floor just inside his window and she sits down on his bed, pulling her knees up to her chin.

Danny sits in his desk chair and waits.

He's waiting long enough that he pulls a book from the stack on his desk and starts reading. It's Moby-Dick, summer reading for English next year, and unsurprisingly dead boring, but makes him feel slightly less awkward about sitting in silence with Erica than he had while watching her watch him.

He's just up to where Ishmael meets Queequeg (a plot point that should be fascinating, just by virtue of the two characters' names, but actually really isn't) when Erica sighs and says, "I've been thinking."

"Okay." Danny sets the book down on his desk and faces her again.

"When they took me," she looks at her hands, "I thought I was going to die. Not like when we get in a fight, or there are hunters after us, when I think there's a possibility that I will die, I just—I was certain that they were going to kill me. I had my last words planned. I was going to write my will on a tree with my claws. I wanted Stiles to get my leather jacket." Danny doesn't move, but he tries to smile at that. He doesn't really succeed. "I figured Derek would sniff me out, or Boyd would. I figured that when the alphas killed me, they'd leave, or maybe they'd wait for someone to try to avenge me. I figured my death would most likely lead to someone else's. I didn't really want it to, I just thought it was sort of inevitable. I felt a little vindicated, thinking about it. You know, when people are asses to you, and you think, well, I'll show them? This was like that. I was going to show everybody by dying."

She shakes her head, long hair tangling over her shoulders. Danny has no idea why she's sitting here. He hopes she doesn't expect him to say anything wise or helpful or good, because he definitely doesn't have anything to offer.

"But they didn't kill me. They sedated me, stuck me in the back of a car, and took off. We got so far I couldn't feel the pack. I couldn't even feel Boyd, and usually…Boyd was always there, you know?" Danny doesn't know, of course, but he imagines not having any way of contacting Stiles, not knowing that he's still in Beacon Hills, not being able to text him whenever, and he doesn't like the way he imagines that would feel, so he nods. "So, it sucked. But I wasn't dead. And I couldn't see why I wasn't dead. They didn't really talk to me. They didn't really talk about me. It was sort of like I wasn't there. Except that, unfortunately, I really fucking was."

And then she raises her eyes to Danny. They're red. "They took me somewhere south, somewhere I could smell the ocean, they locked me in a room with a really weak alpha on the night of the first full moon since they took me, and they waited to see what would happen. They were taking bets on which of us would kill the other. They all expected me to win." She bites her lip. Danny doesn't want to hear this. "I wasn't planning on it. Before the moon, I was planning on letting the other woman kill me. I thought it would be faster than whatever they had planned for me. Which would have been true, obviously. But when the moon came—none of my resistance mattered. I didn't have my anchor, couldn't even sense him, and the alpha was crazy, and—I don't know how long they had her. It can't have been long, because her pack would've tried to break her out, might've succeeded, but they hadn't been feeding her and—we just went at each other. She didn't stand a chance." The matter-of-fact way Erica says it so shattering, so terrifying, that Danny wants to move away from her. But he knows if he does he will wreck whatever feat of trust brought her to his windowsill, and so he sits still and keeps nodding, like he understands. Like he could.

"I didn't want to. I didn't want to become an alpha. I think it shouldn't work, if you don't want it. Your body should reject it. You should die. But I didn't. So I became an alpha and, still," she waved her hands around, "still they ignored me. They gave me drugs that kept me on the verge of unconsciousness and drove east for what felt like weeks, and then they locked me in a cabin in the woods and I thought, Danny, I really thought that this was some sort of weird initiation, and that I was going to be alpha for some other beta to kill. I thought there had been a test somewhere in there that I had failed, and so they didn't want me."

This whole summer Danny has been trying not to think about what it was like for Erica—a werewolf, okay, but also a girl his age—being kidnapped, being traumatized, being forced to kill. He's been trying and mostly succeeding, actually, but here she is on his bed, telling him about it, and he can't keep himself from nodding, encouraging her on, because if she needs to talk then he will listen. He is that nice, at least. He can do that much.

"And it surprised me," Erica's voice is suddenly hard, "that I wanted them to want me. A little. Enough to know that I really didn't want to die. It wasn't Stockholm syndrome, don't get that look. I didn't like them. But I wanted to stay alive. I wanted to be accepted in order to stay alive. That's what I thought about, while I waited for them to find some beta, someone like I had been, someone to come in and kill me and do better at being captive than I had."

Danny waits a long time for Erica to continue. She takes in deep breaths, her hands spread around her knees. She looks at him. He looks back.

"But they didn't. They came in and they started training me. They started teaching me how to control myself. I didn't expect to take to it at all. I was a little out of control as a beta, I thought I'd be so much worse as an alpha. But I wasn't. It was easier for me. I didn't have to answer to anyone—I certainly didn't want to answer to them—and so I forced myself to get a hold of myself. I wasn't perfect, but I got better. They still treated me like a prisoner, I still was a prisoner, but I wasn't at all what they…I wasn't beaten. I wasn't theirs."

She shrugs. "And then it was summer, and we were driving across the country again. And I saw you, and they let Derek take me back, and I have spent the last six weeks trying so hard to figure out what the fuck the point of all of that was. And I just thought—they trained me and then dropped me here. And they stayed, but not in the middle, they hadn't gotten involved in anything until you and Stiles, until Ellen. And so—what if they thought we were going to fight? What if they thought we were going to mess up, draw attention, and then when we didn't? What if they had to do it themselves?"

Danny waits for her to continue, but she's just looking at him, like she's waiting for him to actually answer her questions, and he shrugs. "But why do they want to draw attention?"

Erica drops her head "I've been thinking and thinking about it. I think I'm starting to get it. The alpha I killed—what was the point of her? They didn't want me to join their pack. Maybe having another alpha in Beacon Hills would have caused problems for Derek, maybe, but that's a pretty huge assumption to make, considering the efforts they went to. So what if it was about her? What if we're nothing other than weapons?"

"Oh." Danny lowers his chin. "You mean, that alpha's pack?"

"Her pack, if she had one. Her partner. Someone who misses her. What if they're just drawing them here. What if they trained me just enough to be able to defeat them, and then what if they turn on us, weakened from that fight, and they get rid of us, and—well, what if we defeat each other and only the alphas are left? What then?"

"But there haven't been any other wolves here," Danny points out. "Just our pack and the alphas, circling."

"We haven't really been looking, though, have we? And the alphas are trying to make it obvious. Look at that girl. If whoever they're baiting doesn't show up—what then? Who'll they get next?"

"So what do you say we do?"

"You don't think it's a dumb idea?" Erica stares at him, eyes wide. "You really don't?"

"I think it's smarter than most of our other ideas," Danny confesses. "Don't tell Stiles or Lydia I said so, though."

"No, that'll be my lead-in to the conversation. I'll tell them they should listen to me because you say it's better than what they've come up with." Danny can't really tell if she's kidding or not. Her fangs are out. She looks a little intimidating.

He lets out a brief chuckle, just in case it is a joke. Her grin widens.

"So I'll share that idea with Derek tomorrow, I guess. I don't know what good it'll do, though."

"It'll make it so we're not all sitting around saying that nothing makes sense. You all can start looking for other wolves more than you're looking for the alphas. If they're just here to use you, at first—well, better to ignore them, you know?"

"You, too, Danny," Erica points out. "You might not be as physically dangerous as us, but they'll use you, too."

"I know. We can maybe negotiate with them? The partner, the other pack, whoever the alphas are baiting? You weren't in your right mind—it wasn't your fault." The last words have an edge to them; he hopes Erica understands how very much he means them.

She lets her curls fall in front of one eye. "Yeah. We'll see if they're reasonable."

And then they sit in silence again, less comfortable than when she first climbed through his window. Danny shifts in his chair and Erica sits still on his bed, looking down at her hands on her knees. "Do you want to watch a movie?" Danny offers, and Erica looks up at him, nods without saying anything.

He carries his laptop over to his bed and pulls up a bootlegged copy of Skyfall from somewhere online. Erica stretches back beside him, her back against his headboard, a few of her curls tangling over his shoulder, and watches in silence as the opening chase scene bursts on his computer screen.

Erica falls asleep, her head tilted forward at an angle, and he stops the movie before it's even halfway through. He pulls out his phone in the darkness of his room and texts Stiles, tells him what Erica's thinking.

Stiles texts back, Shit. And then, Actually, this could be good. I'm going to see what Derek and Peter know about other packs in CA.

Danny doesn't respond, because Erica's head has fallen onto his shoulder and she growls, a low sound surprised from her throat, and jerks up, eyes red in the dimness of Danny's bedroom.

"Just me," Danny waves his phone. Her eyes dart to track the progress of the glowing screen, and then she visibly shakes herself.

"Sorry," she breathes. "Still not," she trails off.

"It's seriously fine. We might have a problem if you'd clawed me. But you didn't. We're good."

"Don't worry. I have enough self-preservation to not want to deal with an angry Stiles if I attacked his boyfriend."

"He wouldn't be too pissed if it was an accident." Danny tries to ignore the weird thrill those words send down his spine.

"Oh, no." Erica slides off his bed and tugs on the hem of her white t-shirt, straightening it over her jeans. "Even if it was an accident, he would still totally kill me."

"He'd probably like the scar it left." Danny tries for a lighter tone, because there's something in Erica's expression that he doesn't quite understand.

She shakes her head. "I don't think he would. Thanks for letting me talk to you, Danny. Sorry for," she waves her hand at where he's sitting on his bed, his closed computer beside him, "you know."

"Of course," he says, and then, just as she's pushing his window open, he asks, "Do you mind, I mean, why'd you come to me, though?"

She turns back to face him. "Boyd gets sad and doesn't listen. He says he's listening, but he's just beating himself up over letting me get taken, still. And Stiles just—he's good. But you let me talk. I don't think he would've. He'd have been running his mouth all over the place. You let me work through it myself. I thought you would." She shrugs.

Danny smiles at her. "Any time," he offers, and she nods.

"I might take you up on that," and then she's gone, leaving his window open behind her. Warm wet summer air presses into the cool of his air-conditioned bedroom, and he stands to lean against his windowsill, looking out at the shadows falling under the streetlamps.

:::

Stiles texts him the next morning to tell him he won't be able to make their run. Danny's barely finished reading the text before he's hopping off his bed and heading out on his own, keeping his pace steady as he heads toward the high school.

He crosses the empty parking lot to the track behind the school, where he stretches beside the start, pulling at the toes of his running shoes and swinging his arms behind his back, before settling his toe against the white line and pushing off.

Track workouts are Danny's second least favorite training technique ever, and he would never subject Stiles to one—he'd go crazy, going in circles. But Danny feels the give of the rubbery surface beneath his running shoes and pushes off a little more aggressively than he does on the roads. He's still got Erica's words turning over in his head, and the repetitiveness of the workout is doing something to unwind the tension her story created.

He's just about to start on his third lap—this one at race pace—when he notices the two figures coming toward the track. From this distance, he can just make out the swing of Kali's long hair and Ennis's predatory stride.

He slows to a jog, fingers fumbling for his phone. He's about to send a semi-incoherent text to Stiles when the wolves stop, still on the other side of the fence, cross their arms, and watch him. He keeps his pace slow, waiting for them to come nearer, but they don't move.

Eventually, Danny continues his workout, speeding up on alternating laps. He feels the alphas' eyes on him the whole time, but he doesn't give up until his breath is coming in short, painful bursts and his watch has beeped, signaling the end to the run.

He leaves by the back entrance to the school, and checks over his shoulder frequently as he jogs home, but he doesn't see the alphas again. He tries to push them to the back of his mind as he checks his phone, finds a text from Alec inviting him (and Stiles, Alec makes sure to specify) to a party later that week at his house and one from Derek to the whole pack, reminding them to be careful. Danny taps back to the home screen without responding to either and goes to take a shower.

When Stiles finally stops by in the afternoon, Danny has almost forgotten about the alphas watching his run. Considering the various terrible ways that could have gone, he thinks he probably came off okay.

He doesn't mention it as he meets Stiles at the front walk, brushing a quick and careful kiss over his lips and asking, "Did you guys find anything?"

"Peter was actually sort of kind of half helpful? Like, he told us about a few packs he knows of near LA. Derek and Erica weren't clear on who it was she killed, but it seems like a likely possibility that she's right in that the alphas were using her to get at somebody." They're walking up Danny's stairs as he's talking, and Danny's glad that his parents got invited to an afternoon cookout at a friend's, because otherwise he's pretty sure both of them would be asking why the fuck Danny's started dating someone who talks about death so nonchalantly. And by asking he sort of means yelling. Also calling the police.

"Oh, shit." Stiles must read something of his thoughts in Danny's expression. "Sorry. Is Julia home? Are your parents around? Is there some reason that I shouldn't be shouting about the fact that Erica killed someone?"

"There are probably a lot of reasons. But Julia's visiting Ellen in the hospital with some other kids who were at the party the other night, and my parents are out. But seriously, Stiles, have you considered how shitty Erica feels about all of this?"

"Yes?" Stiles flops himself back on Danny's bed, pushing up until his shoulders are against the headboard. Danny crosses to his desk chair, sitting and looking at Stiles as he rolls his lower lip between his teeth, expression going a little petulant. "I'd never say any of this to Erica, I swear. I would never be so mean to her face." But the way Stiles is twisting his mouth tells Danny it's a lie, and he shakes his head.

"You can be callous," he tells Stiles, and he's not sure if he's giving permission or if he's making an observation.

Stiles links his fingers behind his head, elbows bent and arms making triangles against Danny's headboard. "I can," Stiles agrees. "Look, Erica may be right, but we're still not sure whether the alpha she was forcedto kill was the head of a full pack, or whether she only had a partner, or friends, or, like, a human companion who's going to come after us. We really still don't know what we're up against."

"But if it was just one person, human or wolf or whatever, do you think the alphas would have gone to this much effort? Like, wouldn't they have just killed both of them themselves, especially if they were able to hold the one—that one for long enough to make her that weak?"

Stiles hums. "Probably. But Erica is adamant that they'll do anything to avoid risking their pack.

"Not that I'm doubting Erica, but why would they kidnap another alpha if they're not willing to take risks? Why would they come here? I don't imagine Derek's exactly known for being even-tempered. And then there's Peter."

"I really want to find a way to blame this whole thing on Peter," Stiles confesses.

"That would be convenient," Danny admits. "Oh, hey, wait. I almost forgot. I did a track workout today."

Stiles makes a face. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"You know I'm going for top five this year. Plus, they'll suck less when we have to do them in the fall if I've already done a few. You'll notice I haven't dragged you on any."

"My hero." Stiles presses his hands to his chest. Danny chucks a pencil at him. It falls short, landing next to Stiles's hip. Stiles picks it up and starts playing with it, threading it through his fingers. "So? You tortured yourself this morning. Did anything happen while you were at the track?"

"Kali and Ennis showed up."

Stiles drops the pencil and jumps off the bed, feet landing on Danny's floor and long frame crowding into his space. He presses his hands on Danny's shoulders and leans forward, brown eyes wide. "What'd they do? Why didn't you call me? Or Jackson? Or Scott? Danny, what the fuck?"

"They didn't do anything. They just stood and watched me. They didn't follow me home or anything."

"That you saw," Stiles corrects. "Jesus." He's pulled away, let go of Danny and is pulling his phone out of his pocket, fingers moving fast over the screen before he holds it up to his ear. "Hey, Jackson, can you get over to Danny's and sniff around? He saw a couple of the alphas at the track this morning. Yeah, I know. Yeah, I've told him. Yes, Jackson, yes, will you just get your ass over here?"

Stiles tosses his phone on Danny's bed. It misses, clatters to the floor, and Stiles doesn't even glance at it. He steps forward again, in between Danny's legs, and leans forward.

"Don't do that," he tells him, kissing him once, the press of lips hard. "Don't forget that you're important." And what it sounds like, to Danny, is, "Don't let us down." Danny pulls back.

"I'm not going to fuck this up for you, all right?" He pushes his chair away, its wheels moving slowly over the carpeting of his room.

"What? No. Danny." Stiles reaches out and grips onto the arms of the chair, tugging him to a stop. "That's not what I meant at all. We don't want you hurt. This is fucked up, already. The fact that we're even having this conversation—the fact that we all have to worry about each other—it sucks, all right? But we do it, and we do worry, we all do. Don't tell me you don't worry about me, about Jackson, when we're not around. Don't deny us the right to do the same for you." Stiles closes the distance between them again. "Don't try to make us stop caring."

Danny's phone buzzes then, vibrating a few centimeters across the surface of his desk, and he reaches over to pick it up. Stiles doesn't give him an inch, so he holds the phone up beside them, turning his head to look at it, his nose brushing against Stiles's as he moves.

If you & Stilinski are done being gross, I'm outside.

"Jackson," Danny tells Stiles, and Stiles kisses him again, fast, and then straightens.

"Let's go make sure your house hasn't become an alpha target, boyfriend."

Danny shoves against his shoulder, and Stiles shoves him back. And somehow, Danny is irrepressibly content as he follows Stiles outside, to where Jackson is leaning against his Porsche.

The alphas hadn't followed Danny home. Jackson says he doesn't smell anything strange around his house, and Danny is happy to accept the alphas' creepiness at its surface value of intimidating and threatening but not actually harmful. Stiles isn't exactly satisfied with that explanation, but he and Jackson only toss a few slightly-jagged suggestions back and forth before they all give up and call the rest of the pack together for dinner at the Diner.

They're sitting at one of the large circular booths at the very back of the room, near the grease spilling in waves from the kitchen, when Scott comes rushing in. Derek has pulled a chair up, Stiles is basically in Danny's lap and Erica is entirely in Boyd's. Scott pulls a chair from a nearby table and shoves it beside Derek's, reaching for Stiles's water glass as he drops down. "Sorry, Deaton's back and driving me crazy." Stiles makes a noncommittal noise and Derek raises his eyebrows. "Okay, so, anyway, my mom tells me that Ellen woke up and won't quit talking about mountain lions."

Stiles relaxes against Danny's side. "Good." He pulls his phone out and starts typing out a text to his dad, but Derek reaches across the table and pulls his phone from his hands.

"Maybe your dad shouldn't know you're as well informed as you are," he says, cancelling the text and handing Stiles's phone to Danny. "And maybe you shouldn't make him more suspicious than he already is."

"Fine, fine." Stiles waves his hands. "Whatever. So, now that that we no longer have to worry about Ellen telling everyone, what's our game plan?"

"We're going to a party at Alec's on Friday," Jackson says, and the whole table turns to look at him. "Well, not all of us. Derek probably shouldn't. But I am, and Lydia is, and Danny. Stilinski, if he wants to."

"Why?" Danny asks, even though he'd been flicking back to the text about the party occasionally throughout the day.

"Last time there was a party," Lydia pulls a piece of lettuce from her burger and drops it in her paper-lined basket, "a girl apparently got kidnapped from it. So obviously we're going to this one."

"Obviously," Jackson repeats, and Stiles settles against Danny.

"Sounds good to me."

"More than one wolf should be there," Derek says, voice low. "Scott?"

"Sure," Scott agrees. Stiles shifts beside Danny and Scott jerks in his chair, reaching one hand down to rub at his shin, shooting a glare at Stiles even as he continues, "Although, on behalf of my friends, I resent the fact that you're implying that the humans are not as capable of handling themselves and protecting people as we are."

Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles holds out his fist for Scott to bump. "I'm not implying it, I'm stating it outright. And you all know it's true."

"Hey," Stiles shoves his burger in Derek's direction, "we're not all damsels in distress."

"Last time you were cornered by alphas, you texted me and Derek even though you had mountain ash," Erica points out.

"Well, yeah." Stiles shrugs. "Less effort involved for me that way."

Derek snorts. "Shut up and eat your burger, Stiles."

"Whatever, Derek. You're just afraid of admitting that you find me intimidating." Stiles sets his burger down long enough to make claws with his hands, and Danny laughs into his straw as Derek drops his head to the table and lets out a long-suffering sigh.

Boyd reaches out and taps an awkward pat against his shoulders. "I'll go too. Make sure these idiots don't get themselves killed."

"And me," Erica offers. She's staring at the ketchup bottle at the center of the able. "I want—I just. I have to go back to school in two weeks. Might as well make an appearance first."

"That's probably smart." Derek's voice is low, the words coming hesitantly, but when Danny glances at him he sees that his mouth is relaxed in a small smile. "I'll stay nearby, just in case."

"So," Jackson doesn't even look at their end of the table, "who's picking up the beer for Friday?"

Stiles points at Derek. Derek looks away from Erica and shakes his head.

"He will," Stiles says. Derek groans.

:::

Derek doesn't actually end up buying them beer. They go to the party empty-handed, because Derek puts his foot down and Danny doesn't have enough spending money to buy beer and besides, Jackson says there'll be a keg. And, even moreimportantly, Lydia reminds them that the only reason they're even making an appearance at this fucking party is to keep idiot high schoolers from getting mauled by werewolves.

Which, okay. Danny will give her that, but it's a little difficult to be inside the house, among the press of moving bodies, and not want to go to the kitchen for a drink immediately.

Stiles doesn't resist the temptation. He emerges from the kitchen with two mostly full red Solo cups and hands one to Danny. "Lydia's not that scary," he says in response to Danny's raised eyebrows. Danny doesn't point out that she really sort of is, just takes an appreciative sip of the beer, which is not as shitty as one would expect from one of their classmates, and takes Stiles's hand.

Someone has a playlist queued up—Danny's willing to bet it's not Alec's, because his music taste runs more toward angsty guitar-strumming than pop songs and dance remixes—and the living room soon becomes a mess of people moving together.

Danny nods towards the room, knowing that Erica and Boyd are lingering outside and Jackson and Lydia have disappeared somewhere in that group, and Scott is probably good-naturedly ribbing the sophomores and freshmen lingering around the edges of the party. He knows that all of the wolves have an ear out for anything supernatural. He and Stiles can be teenagers for right now, if they want to.

Stiles tips back the rest of his beer, taking it down in impressive gulps that leave Danny a little awed. He sets the cup on a coffee table and Danny hurries to follow him, drinking only half of his beer before leaving it beside Stiles's. He sets his hands on Stiles's waist and can already feel the tension in him. Danny draws him close and they move into the crowd of their classmates, a few of whom are so drunk they're staring outright.

"Why do they care so much?" Stiles mutters, dropping his head back so his mouth is nearer Danny's ear.

Danny drops a kiss to his throat. "Does it matter?" he mutters. "God, Stiles." He tightens his hands and presses forward. Stiles lets out a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a moan, and his neck flushes red.

They make it through two songs before everything goes to shit.

Jackson grabs onto the back of Danny's neck and hauls him into the kitchen. Danny catches Stiles's hand as soon as Jackson touches him, pulling him along behind them, and they stop just at the screen door that looks over the back deck and the yard. There are couples and groups out in the yard, and Jackson digs his fingers into Danny's neck and hisses, "One of the alphas is out there."

"Which one?" Stiles asks from beside Danny.

"Where?" Lydia comes up behind them, resting a hand on Jackson's shoulder. He releases Danny slowly, fingers unclenching from around the back of his neck. Scott is standing just on the other side of the screen door, and Erica and Boyd are at the railing of the deck, by the stairs down to the lawn.

"One of the twins," Scott answers through the screen door. "We can't tell exactly where. It's hard to hear over," he gestures toward the sounds still pulsing from the living room.

But then Danny notices Erica stepping carefully down the stairs, brushing past a couple making out against the railing, with Boyd following right behind her. "Let's follow them." He pushes the door open and steps onto the deck.

"Wait." Scott reaches out and presses a hand against Jackson's shoulder. "You and me should stay up here, Jackson. If there's only one out there—there are four more."

"Fine," Jackson growls, stepping back into the kitchen so Scott can join him. Stiles pushes up against Danny's back, moving him a few feet further onto the deck.

"You've got mountain ash and wolfsbane?" he asks Lydia, and she nods, her hand going to her back pocket.

"Enough," she tells him. "You?"

He grins. "More than enough." He takes Danny's hand and tugs him across the deck, to the stairs. Erica and Boyd are standing at the last step, their backs stiff.

"Everything all right?" Stiles asks when they reach them.

Erica shakes her head. She nods toward the side of the house, where there are two shadowy bodies moving together.

"That's him?" Danny keeps his voice soft. The alpha doesn't look like he's here to wreak havoc, kissing someone in between Alec's mom's rosebushes. He doesn't look like anything worse than their classmates all over the house, the girl he's kissing doesn't look like she's resisting, although Danny can't make out who it is. But maybe Ellen's nightmare started this way too, with a kiss at a party.

"Who…?" Stiles trails off, because Erica has leapt forward, body changing in the air, her shadow stretching and distorting as she shifts into beta form. She drags the twin off the girl, her claws digging visibly into his shoulder, and he roars as he twists to meet her, his eyes a red that matches hers.

Boyd shakes beside Stiles and Danny, fighting his transformation because Erica doesn't need his help yet, and then breathes, "Oh, fuck."

Danny doesn't need to ask what's wrong, because they've gotten closer to the fighting wolves, close enough to see the girl in the light falling from the windows of Alec's house, and the girl is Julia. Julia, looking at the fight rocking out in front of her like she'll never look away. Julia, touching her red mouth and staring.

"Jules." Danny lets go of Stiles, who is fumbling in his pocket for wolfsbane or mountain ash or something, and steps toward his sister.

"Jules," he says again, grabbing onto her as she tries to lurch away from him, and then a light flashes on on the back deck and he looks up to see people lining the railing, staring down at the werewolves rolling on the ground, at the blood darkening the green grass.

"What," Julia says into his shoulder, "what the fuck, Danny, what."

He's about to say something, although he's not sure what, when there's a scream from the front of the house. Boyd lets out a howl, and it's answered by one of the wolves inside. Jackson, Danny thinks.

Erica is winning; she has the twin pinned to the ground, and she's self-aware enough to look up at Danny and Boyd and Stiles. "Help the others," she growls, voice low and grating and lisping through her teeth. The twin beneath her makes an abortive movement and she digs her claws into his shoulder, blood pulsing out in large enough amounts that Danny can make it out in the dim lights falling over them from the house and the deck.

Boyd and Stiles have already started towards the stairs, but Danny's still got Julia in front of him, struggling out of the hold he's got on her upper arms, staring at where Erica's holding the alpha down. Staring at the blood.

"Get home, Julia." He shoves her toward the walkway that cuts around the house.

She stumbles, not looking away from Erica, who's fucking strangling the alpha, now, hands red and slippery looking.

"Jules." Danny breathes out. "Please. Go. Home."

"But," she won't look at him. Won't turn from Erica. "Danny?"

There is a constant barrage of screams and shouts coming from the deck, spilling through the open living room windows a floor above them. He needs Julia to get out of here. He needs Julia home before the cops come, needs her out of here before the alphas break through the barricade of Scott and Jackson and Boyd, Lydia and Stiles, and realize that one of their pack is hurting. He needs her gone.

Erica spits from where she's still sitting on the alpha, her hands still around his neck, but they look looser, "If you don't get out of here in five seconds, I will kill this asshole, and then drag you back to your house by your fucking hair."

Julia makes a strangled sound. She turns to stare wide-eyed at Danny, as if expecting him to protect her. He waves his hands at her. "Go the fuck home, Julia. Please."

She looks like he's hit her, but she turns and hurries down the walkway, glancing behind her only twice before breaking into a run. He can hear other people leaving, see headlights cutting from the road at the front of the house—people fleeing. He hopes Julia gets home with one of them, but anywhere is better than here.

Erica pushes herself to her feet, wiping her hands on her jeans, smearing dark prints there. "He's unconscious," she tells Danny. "I didn't kill him." He's a little surprised, and a little ashamed that he's surprised.

She doesn't pause to make sure he's following as she brushes past him to the door that leads to the downstairs. She kicks the door in, her whole body behind it. It shakes, the wall shakes, Danny's world shakes, and he follows her inside, grateful that they don't have to push through the teenagers still clogging the deck, the ones who're shoving each other down the deck stairs, so anxious to get out of this nightmare that they're running into the woods, disappearing in the neighbors' backyards. Screaming, all around them, screaming, and shouting, and these repetitive roars from upstairs.

They're in the living room. Ennis and Kali and the other twin, the one not currently bleeding and unconscious in the backyard, standing in a line with their backs to the picture window that looks out over the street. They're not fully shifted, but they're all somewhere on their way to full wolf, and Scott and Boyd and Jackson face them, standing in front of the couch that'd been pushed against the far wall in preparation for the party, looking across a room that reeks of spilled beer and letting out low continuous growls. The alphas are the ones roaring, jaws cracking as the sounds roll out, as if they're trying to attract attention.

Stiles and Lydia are standing in the doorway to the kitchen. They look unharmed. Everyone looks fine; Erica's the only one with blood on her.

She and Danny pause at the top of the stairs. They're near their friends, and Danny moves to join the wolves, but Erica shoves him towards Stiles and Lydia as she herself steps forward, releasing a roar that matches the ones coming from the alphas.

At the sight of her they stop, the three of them, their mouths bursting with teeth but suddenly silent, their red eyes locked on her bloody skin, hair, clothes.

"Aiden?" Kali asks, meaning that the one watching Erica like she's a nightmare coming directly for him is Ethan. He starts growling.

"Unconscious but otherwise fine, which you have to know." Erica waves a hand. Her claws are out, and the gesture, which looks so innocent on Stiles, on Danny, is a threat on her. "Unless your pack bond has gotten so weak you can't even tell he's alive?"

Ethan leaps for her, and Kali growls, "No," as Scott and Jackson and Boyd converge on them, too, the wolves growing claws and fangs and sideburns in the time it takes them to cross the room.

The alphas fight, but they don't shift into wolves. Erica doesn't, either. They aren't fighting individually, their bodies are coming together and breaking apart in a mass, all together in waves, and Danny can't tell who's growling, who's roaring, whose blood is pooling on the hardwood floors. He reaches into Stiles's pocket and tugs out a bag of powdered wolfsbane. He doesn't know what good it'll do, doesn't even really know what to do with it, but Stiles has his hand clutched around a bag of his own and Lydia, Jesus, Lydia has a knife in her hand, and she's holding it easily, familiarly.

The sounds of the wolves are getting more desperate. They're ripping at each other, Danny can see Boyd's teeth settle in Ennis's shoulder, and he lets out an honest-to-god scream. Stiles keeps pushing forward onto the balls of his feet, like he wants to get in there, and then settling back on his heels when he realizes there's no opening. There's not even enough room between the wolves to force an opening.

Sirens cut through the cacophony of roars and growls and claws ripping through skin, the sounds of people still shouting out in the backyard elevating in the direct aftermath of the sirens, and then it's suddenly still and silent in the backyard. The wolves continue fighting for the barest of seconds, and then Kali releases Scott and Erica shoves Ethan away from her and Jackson and Boyd back off from Ennis. They're all bleeding, their bodies healing in agonizing slow motion.

"Later," Ennis coughs, backing toward the window. Kali makes it there first, flipping through the glass as three long cuts down her side shed blood everywhere. The sound of glass shattering as she falls is the least shocking noise of the night.

Scott reaches out as Ennis and Ethan follow her, as if he wants to keep one of them. To take one of them hostage.

It's not a bad thought. Danny looks at Lydia, who nods and turns, running down the stairs before Danny can even vocalize his thought.

"Where?" Erica begins, coughing, wiping blood from her face onto her bloody wrist. They're all covered, all over red. Jackson lets out a brief growl and hobbles after Lydia, body healing as he stumbles down the stairs.

"If Aiden's still there, Lydia'll drug him. Derek should be nearby."

"A hostage?" Erica looks sick.

"If he's still there." Danny gets why she looks the way she does, but they need an advantage. And they took her.

"They took you." Boyd growls, grabbing onto Erica's hand.

"We need to get out of here." Scott glances at the broken window. "We'll talk—we need to get out of here." Because the room is suddenly filled with reflective red and blue lights, and they cannot be here. "Stiles." Scott steps forward, face twisted in concentration.

"I know, dude, I know." Stiles reaches out and grabs onto Scott's wrist. Danny gets under his other arm and Boyd, who didn't get nearly as torn up as the others, holds onto Erica's waist.

They go through the downstairs, out through the open back door. Lydia and Jackson aren't outside anymore, and Aiden's not there, either, although that could mean anything.

They hear someone from the front of the house call, "Police, open up," and they stumble through the few people too scared to make a break for the woods. They're given a wide berth as they make their way into the side woods that skirt Alec's house.

"The Jeep's down the road this way," Stiles says through his teeth. Scott's gone mostly unconscious, and Danny admires the fact that Stiles can even form a sentence—Scott McCall is not a light load, even split between the two of them.

"Think your dad noticed it?" Erica asks, voice shaking.

"Does it really matter? We need to get to Deaton. Fuck the police." Stiles is trying so hard, so hard for humor, but Danny can't even manage a smile. Boyd lets out a huff that could have been a laugh, maybe. An attempt at one, anyway.

They get to the Jeep without running into anyone. It's parked alone on the side of the road in front of a house a few houses down from Alec's; less than two hours ago they had been at the end of a very long line of cars. Now the road is empty, the lights from the police cruisers still flashing around the curve in the street by Alec's house, the sounds muffled by the distance they've come, but still louder than an ordinary Saturday night on this back road.

"Fuck," Stiles mutters as he and Danny manage to heave Scott into the backseat. Boyd climbs in after, pulling Erica behind him, and he lets the two more heavily injured wolves fall against his sides.

Stiles drives so fast they almost leave the road when they take corners, and Danny doesn't even think about the possibility of them crashing or getting pulled over or anything because this night has already been shitty enough and they need to get to Deaton. They need to get to Deaton, and he needs to get to Julia.

Stiles's phone makes a chiming noise, and he huffs and digs around in his pocket with one hand, the other staying on the steering wheel, and hands his phone to Danny. It's sticky with blood when he takes it.

There are three texts. He opens the first, from Derek. What happened? I hear sirens.

The next is from Lydia: Got Aiden. Taking him to the Hale place.

The third is from Derek, again: Jackson's okay. Let me know when you get out.

Danny reads them to Stiles. "I'll let him know we're going to Deaton."

"Then what?" Erica asks from the backseat, her voice a raspy mess.

"Then we get you all healed up. We go see Derek. We find out what Aiden knows. We solve this fucking mystery."

"What if the alphas go to Derek's? What if they try to get to them? There's only Jackson there now."

"And Derek, and Lydia. I bet Allison'll be over there soon." Danny sends the text to Derek from Stiles's phone, scratching at a bit of the dried blood—Scott's probably, maybe Erica's—on the screen as the message pops up in the log.

"Lydia'll surround the house with mountain ash, so they won't be able to get in, and none of you would be any help right now, anyway." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. "Scott, buddy, you still with us?"

"I'm good," Scott manages. It sounds like he's anything but, but Stiles relaxes in the driver's seat at his voice.

"Call Deaton. He's in there under Enigmatic Douchebag," Stiles directs, and Danny scrolls through his contacts to find the vet. He answers on the first ring.

"Mr. Stilinski? To what do I owe this pleasure?" The man's voice is quiet. Everyone sounds so damn tired these days.

"It's actually Stiles's boyfriend—we've got three werewolves bleeding out in Stiles's Jeep and we're on our way to your office."

"I'm not bleeding out," Boyd protests, and Danny rolls his eyes as Deaton releases a sigh into his ear.

"I can be there in ten minutes. Is Scott with you?"

"Yeah."

"Of course he is. Well, he has a key. Let yourselves in. Stiles knows where the antiseptic ointments and bandages are; he can start preparing them." The vet hangs up before Danny can respond.

They screech into the vet's parking lot a minute later, and Erica and Boyd get out, Erica standing mostly on her own now. Scott makes a few attempts at fumbling in his pocket, but he's losing control over his hands—he seems to be getting worse rather than better, which is not how this stupid werewolf shit is supposed to work, damn it—and Stiles reaches into his pockets for the keys.

"Which one," he holds out the keychain in front of Scott, and Scott reaches out a shaking finger to point at the slim silver one between his mom's car key and one that looks like it could fit a bike lock.

Stiles fists the key in his hand and strides up to the vet office, unlocking the door and holding it open as Boyd helps Erica inside. Boyd returns in a few seconds, and he and Stiles and Danny manage to get Scott into one of the back rooms, lifting him up on an exam table. Erica is sitting in a chair in a corner, Boyd carefully smoothing back her hair so he can see the damage.

Stiles's hands shake as he tries to cut Scott's shirt off with scissors he pulls from a drawer in the side cabinets. Danny reaches for the scissors, stills Stiles's hands with one of his. "I can do it," he tells him, and Stiles steps back.

Danny cuts a neat line up the center of Scott's torn shirt, thinking about how he was not meant for this. The line is neat, but it reveals the complete mess underneath. Scott's skin is red and bloody and swollen around bite marks and scratches so deep and wide they're more like gouges, rips out of his skin.

Stiles makes a sound in his throat, and Danny glances up from where he's peeling the fabric away from Scott's torso and chest, tugging a little where it's stuck with dried blood. Stiles is gripping the edge of the metal exam table, fingers leaving smears of sweat on the metal, his face twisted and his mouth open a little and he's breathing hard. "Oh, God."

Danny's never seen him like this before. "It's all right, Stiles, it's okay." He lifts Scott's shoulders off the table and tugs the remains of his shirt from under them. Scott shivers a little as his hot skin falls onto the cool of the table. "We need to get him cleaned off. Deaton mentioned ointments, bandages?"

Boyd's moving behind Danny, and he hears water running. He turns to see the werewolf at a sink set into the row of cabinets, holding a cloth under the faucet. The water runs pink down the drain from all the blood on Boyd's hands, and he leaves the faucet on as he crosses the room back to Erica, whose shirt is on the floor. Her torso is a wreck, but not nearly as much of one as Scott's.

Danny digs in a cabinet to the right of the sink and finds a white cloth, which he sticks under the faucet for a second before turning back to Scott, who is shaking on the table. Stiles hasn't moved.

"Stiles." Danny carefully runs the cloth over Scott's skin, pressing just a little to get the dried blood off. The wounds aren't bleeding as much anymore, the red coming in sluggish pulses, and Scott doesn't look quite as awful as he did when they first got him out of the Jeep. Danny's not sure if that's wishful thinking. "What do you usually use to sterilize their wounds?"

"Oh, God." Stiles spins on his heel and starts rummaging through the cabinets on the wall behind him, but his movements are frantic and unfocused, like he's not sure what he's looking for, he's just looking.

"Stilinski," Boyd barks. "Get your shit together."

Erica snorts as Boyd scrubs blood from her shoulder. "He'll be okay, you idiot. He's not dying."

"Oh, God." Stiles presses his forehead against one of the cabinet doors, and Danny is just about to drop the bloody cloth to the exam table to go to him when the door opens and Deaton strides in.

He takes in the scene with his eyebrows raised, his expression barely changing at all.

"Mr. Stilinski, the antiseptic is in the drawer by your left hand. Please take out the bottle with the blue top. Mr. Boyd, please remove your shirt. I can't treat your injuries if I can't see them. Ms. Reyes, the next room has an exam table. If you can make it there yourself, I suggest you do. It will be easier for Mr. Stilinski to help you if you're lying down and he's not looking at Scott the whole time." He pivots, takes in Danny, with his hands on Scott's shoulders. "You must be the boyfriend." He directs his gaze down, at Scott, and gives a slight shake of his head. "I'll take care of Scott." His tone is soft.

Stiles follows Erica's shuffling form into the next room, and Deaton looks Boyd over quickly, handing Danny a clean cloth and a small bottle of what smells like rubbing alcohol. "Mr. Boyd just needs that bite on his shoulder cleaned. Please."

Danny feels a little relieved to leave Scott's side; Boyd looks like a significantly better patient to treat.

Deaton makes a noise as he leans over Scott, and Boyd growls as Danny pours the clear liquid onto the cloth, rubbing it against his wound, and Erica's saying something to Stiles in the next room that makes him half-laugh, and the barely-there noises are startling after the rush of the last few hours.

Deaton makes a humming noise as Danny washes the cloth in the sink and Stiles and Erica come shuffling back into the room, both looking much healthier. Erica snatches her bloody shirt from the floor and pulls it on, and they all crowd around where Scott is still lying.

"I can't have you all hovering," Deaton finally says. "Mr. Stilinski can stay, the rest of you may go into the waiting area."

Erica shakes her head. "We should be with pack."

"You'll help Scott more if you let me take care of him."

"Can we go to Derek?" Boyd suggests. Stiles reaches into his pocket, not taking his gaze from Scott.

"Here," he hands his keys to Danny, their fingers brushing a little, "just come back for us after you drop them off."

"I might take a detour home. I want to see if Julia's all right."

"Of course," Stiles glances up, a quick jerk of his eyes, and he tries to smile. Danny squeezes his hand before leading the others out of the clinic, to Stiles's Jeep.

It stinks of blood and sweat, and Danny feels a little sick as he reverses out of the parking lot, Erica in the seat beside him and Boyd in the back. The headlights cut across the buildings as he pulls out onto the road, and his foot falls against the gas. The Jeep's engine revs.

He knows he's speeding toward the woods and all the nightmares living in them, and he's not wishing for safety, really; all he wants is Scott and Stiles in the Jeep with him and Erica and Boyd, to have them all heading toward the monsters together.


End file.
